The Photo Booth
by ElviraGulch
Summary: A little over a year after the battle of Hogwarts and Harry is finally ready to enter the world again. He hires a tutor to help him study for his NEWTS, but gets more than he bargained for when none other than Draco Malfoy shows up on his doorstep. HP/DM, HG/RW. At least one OC. Compliant up to DH, but EWE.
1. Chapter 1

Harry stepped from the floo into the living room of the Burrow, immediately aware that something was deeply wrong. The room was deserted and eerily silent, yet it had been decorated within an inch of its life with tinsel, fairy lights, and garlands of paper in the shape of dancing house elves spelled to really move. He pulled out his wand and eyed the moving decorations suspiciously—where were the Weasley's? It was his birthday dinner, and it wasn't like any of the Weasley clan to leave the house alone. In fact, Harry could not remember a single time he had ever visited the Burrow when there hadn't been at least three Weasley's about. His mind flashed horribly back to Bill and Fleur's wedding—Death Eaters attacking and wizards fleeing every which way—and his stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. What if they were all gone? Abducted or killed by lingering Death Eater fanatics? What would he do?

"SURPRISE!" He turned, tears already starting in his eyes, to see the whole Weasley clan, plus Hermione, Luna, and Neville, shimmer into being as disillusionment charms rippled away.

"Happy Birthday, mate," Ron said, clapping him on the back.

"Always wanted to do a proper Muggle surprise party!" said Arthur Weasley, grinning broadly.

"I think it's usually the case that the person doesn't know about the party at all," said Luna, in her dreamy voice. Then, after a pause, she added, "I think we've rather scared Harry."

"Harry, are you crying?"

"S'alright, Hermione, I'm fine," Harry managed to choke out before he was peremptorily enveloped in an enthusiastic hug from Molly Weasley.

"Oh Harry! What a scare you've had! And on your birthday! Everyone into the kitchen for cake if they know what's good for them!" All of this was bellowed shrilly right next to Harry's ear, making him wince a bit, but he smiled broadly when she pulled away and looked at him with kind eyes. "Don't worry, Harry. We'll get you sorted."

As the group gathered in the Burrow's large but cozy kitchen, Harry's fear turned quickly to embarrassment. This was not the first time that this sort of thing had happened. In the year since the war, Harry's friends had all learned that being even five minutes late to meet Harry would send him into a mild panic. After the third time Harry had owled the Ministry about his absolute certainty that Hermione had been captured and possibly killed by Dark wizards, even Ron had become meticulously punctual. Harry always knew he was over-reacting, but he couldn't help it. He could never quite relax and convince himself that the war was really over and that his friends would be safe.

He was mildly surprised that Molly had let Arthur have the party as a surprise, although he supposed his over reaction was due in part to being told that there would be a party only to arrive to an empty house. Luna was right—that wasn't how surprise parties were supposed to go. But he sighed. Really, it was time for him to grow up, to accept some uncertainty in his life. He'd have to if he ever wanted to follow through with Auror training.

The evening was a smashing one. Molly had baked an enormous chocolate cake with a hollow center full of chocolate frogs. When she cut the first slice, frogs leapt out merrily and they all had a good laugh trying to round them up and eat them before the melted on the kitchen floor. Everyone seemed to have agreed on a common theme for gift-giving, and Harry received presents for his home, number 12 Grimmauld Place. He'd been renovating the Black's ancestral home for the past year, but he was finally almost done with repairs and had begun the less appealing task of decorating.

Hermione gave him a book called _Classic Design for the Contemporary Wizard_, a photograph-heavy book with pictures of famous wizarding homes and then smaller flats that had been decorated on the same model. Ron gave him a set of antique door knobs made of cut glass that Harry strongly suspected Hermione had picked out on his behalf. Neville gave him a fern-like plant with a complicated name that was said to repel, or maybe to prey on, mice and other rodents. Luna gave him a very beautiful, if odd, little window comprised of different colored bits of glass that looked suspiciously like they might have once been soda bottles.

"Er, thanks, Luna. It's beautiful, really."

"It's a Nargle catcher," she said, seriously. "You should hang it in your kitchen window. It'll scare away any Nargles that might be trying to get in to sort through your garbage. I made it myself."

"Oh, brilliant. I love it," Harry said, and he did. It seemed unlikely any Nargles be attacking his kitchen any time soon, but the little colored window was interesting and actually quite pretty. It looked homemade and a little bizarre and very unique. It looked like Luna. With a sudden pang Harry looked around at all his friends, feeling especially lucky to be alive.

"Harry, are you alright? You've gone a bit glassy eyed," Hermione said with a look of concern.

"Yeah, I'm better than alright." He paused. "Listen there's something I wanted to tell you all, something I've decided to do."

"Well, out with it," Ron interjected through a mouthful of cake.

"I've decided to hire a tutor. To get on with my NEWTS. I'm going to take them in May at Hogwarts so I can apply for Auror training next summer."

"Oh Harry!" Hermione's whole face lit up, and she looked as though she might begin to cry.

"Well, alright mate, if that's your idea of a big announcement. Can't believe you're all sentimental about studying."

"Ron, I think it's brilliant that Harry wants to start studying for his NEWTS. They are very important tests! Just because you wouldn't crack a book to save your life doesn't mean Harry has to be the same," Hermione said fiercely.

"I'm glad you say that, Hermione, because I was hoping I could convince you to tutor me as well."

"Me tutor you? Harry, I'll be in school." Hermione would be attending Bullbladtts Academy in the fall, a very prestigious school specializing in wizarding law. The program was notoriously rigorous, and Harry knew that Hermione had spent the summer pouring over every musty book she could get her hands on in anticipation.

"I know. That's why I've hired someone. I got a referral from McGonagal, someone she said works with a bunch of our year who never went back for 8th year. The tutor will come twice a week. On Tuesdays, we'll work on Potions, and Thursdays Transfiguration. Defense Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies I have covered, I think, to review on my own. That just leaves Charms. And there's no one better at teaching Charms than you."

"Well, that's very flattering, but I just don't know if I can. I'm already behind on my preparatory reading for Bullbladtts!" At this, Ron gave her a pointed look. "Ok, I'm not behind, per se, but I had hoped to have finished my second reads on all the first quarter books by now and I haven't had a chance to outline any of the reading for second quarter at all."

"Think of it this way, 'Mione. We may not get many chances to see one another after your term starts, and this way when you do see me you'll be practicing your basics at the same time. Everyone wins."

"You know, I'd never have made it through 8th year without you, 'Mione. You really are the best at explaining Charms," Ron put in, and Harry shot him a grateful look.

"Alright, Harry. Once a week, two hours. That's all you get," Hermione said reluctantly. "But if I fall behind…"

"I know, I know. You'll hex me until I can't see." Everyone laughed, though Ron's nervous laughter made Harry somewhat anxious, despite his victory.

"Well, if that's all quite out of the way," said Ginny, "there are still presents to be opened. Namely, mine."

"And mine," Arthur and George chimed in unison.

"I've already put your birthday jumper in a bag with some leftovers for you to take home, Harry," Molly put in, "but we also all pitched in on a present for your new place, from all the Weasleys."

"It was Ginny's idea," George said, "But we all helped. We'll have to go outside to show it to you."

Intrigued, Harry followed the group into the garden. Just next to an old bench was a large black box with a curtain hanging over one side.

"It's a photo booth!" Ginny burst out, almost immediately.

"It's a fascinating Muggle invention," Arthur began, clearly in awe of the contraption. "You step behind the curtain and a little camera takes four photographs very quickly, and they come out of this little slot here." He pointed at a well on the side of the box. "Only takes a minute. Nearly instant."

"This one's been fixed up a bit," George said slyly. "The pictures will move, like wizard pictures do."

"I've also set a semi-permanent refilling charm on it," said Molly, "should last at least ten years before you'll have to buy more film."

Harry walked around the box, grinning broadly. He'd seen a photo booth before, of course, on train platforms and at the zoo when he turned eleven. But to have one of his own was genius.

"We know how much you love looking at pictures of people you love," Ginny said, "now anyone who comes to Grimmauld Place can leave you a picture."

"I love it!" Harry said, beaming. "This has been, without a doubt, the best birthday I can remember."

"Harry," Arthur said, suddenly serious, "you are going to try it out, aren't you?" Everyone laughed and Harry stepped obligingly behind the curtain.

Over the next hour, the whole party took picture after picture in the booth, most of them fairly goofy. At the end of the night, thanks to some clever expandable charm work by Hermione, they managed to get everyone in the booth at once, all squashed together, for a big family portrait.

Later, after the party ended and Arthur, George, Ginny, and Ron had helped Harry transport the booth to Grimmauld place and then left for the night, Harry sat in his living room in the big, comfy reading chair he had purchased just last week staring at the strip. The first three pictures on the strip were blurry and chaotic—just limbs and harassed faces and unintentional jumbles of bodies—but the final one managed to capture everyone smiling happily at the camera. George and Ginny squeezed each other and grinned. Hermione and Ron smiled first at each other and then at the camera. Molly shot an exasperated look at Neville, who had inadvertently trod on Luna, and Arthur and Harry both looked stiff and then dissolved into goofy grins. It all came together in a final moment where everyone smiled at once, and then the action looped back to the beginning. They looked like a real family.

Despite his nonchalant declaration to Hermione about hiring a tutor, Harry was in fact quite nervous about beginning his studies again. In the year and some months since the battle of Hogwarts, Harry had not done very much at all that could be construed as studying. He hadn't been completely idle—he had his routines, his morning runs and his trips to St. Mungo's to volunteer and his trips to the local Muggle library, where he had been quickly and greedily reading through the trashiest books he could get his hands on—but he hadn't done anything to keep up with school. Just the lazy magic of the everyday. He strongly suspected that whoever appeared on his doorstep to tutor him would be expecting much more from the Chosen One, defeater of the Dark Lord, than the scrawny nineteen year old who still struggled to transfigure a walnut into a water glass.

And, too, he'd been fairly secluded for the last year. He wasn't shut off from the world, but he wasn't really a participant in it either. He wasn't sure if he would be able to talk to some random stranger for hours on end twice a week when now he only spent time alone with friends who had known him for years, through the darkest of times. He could handle small talk for a few minutes, but how would he keep it up all day long?

Of course, the tutor would be a professional, Harry reminded himself. And they'd be talking about Potions and Transfiguration. They would have loads of work to do, and that would help ease any tension caused by Harry's continued awkwardness with strangers. And he'd have Hermione once a week to sharpen him up a bit, and Ginny wouldn't be starting training for the Hollyhead Harpies until mid-October, so she'd still be around to keep him grounded. And Ron might be busy with Auror training, but he'd still pop by like old times. There was nothing to worry about.

Nevertheless, Harry's nervous energy prevented him from sleeping in past 5:30 the morning the tutor was set to arrive. Even though he normally struggled to rise before 7, that morning he awoke with a sudden jolt, and soon miserably realized he'd never be able to get back to sleep. He dragged himself out of bed and into his running clothes and was out the door in just a few minutes. It was going to be a long morning.

By the time the doorbell rang at 9:00 in the morning, Harry had returned from his run, taken a shower, eaten breakfast, cleaned the kitchen and the living room, alphabetized all of the books on the shelves in his study, consumed three pots of tea, organized his sock drawer by color and style, and was contemplating tackling the overflowing recycling bin he could never quite remember to take out to the curb on Monday mornings. He crossed the front hallway towards the front door, silently cursing himself that he had not had time to change into more presentable clothes, so caught up in the morning's frenzied cleaning and sorting. He felt supremely awkward and unprepared, and he chided himself. He'd been restless for months now, he reminded himself. It was more than time. He _was_ ready. Ready to think again, to work towards a goal. Ready to face the world outside number 12 Grimmauld Place. And yet the anxiety was there, nudging at him and sending him into an uncharacteristic cleaning and sorting spree.

His hand paused on the knob for just a moment before he pulled open the door, plastering on what he hoped was his most winning smile. "Hello, and welcome, I'm Ha…" he began, but trailed off almost immediately, smile fading to a confused and lopsided grimace.

"Yes, Potter, I know who you are."

Harry's heart unexpectedly fluttered faster and his palms began to sweat. It was Malfoy. Draco Malfoy was standing at his front door looking at him with an all too familiar mixture of pity and haughtiness. For a moment he didn't know what to do. Instinct told him he should slam the door in Draco's face. It felt like a cruel joke, or the universe's perverse way of showing him he wasn't ready to re-enter the world at all, not if it contained Draco Malfoy. But it only lasted a moment before he stepped aside, gesturing Malfoy through the door and saying, "Yes, of course you do. Please, come in."

After all, it wasn't as though he hated Malfoy any more. He couldn't. All the anger and frustration that had fueled him during the end of the war had drained away long ago. In fact, it was hard for him to feel strongly at all these days, let alone feel that consuming hatred that had characterized his school boy interactions in Malfoy at Hogwarts. Still, Malfoy reminded Harry of all the things about the war he tried hard not to think about—the people who had died, the people who had sacrificed themselves, or changed sides, or made decisions that enabled him to still be standing here today. Thinking about it filled him with remorse and unease, confronted simultaneously with the magnitude of what he had done to defeat Voldemort and the knowledge that had any number of moments along the way, however small, happened differently he would have failed, and failed spectacularly. These were not exactly the feelings he wanted to be having while studying for his NEWTS.

When they arrived in the living room, Harry became painfully conscious that he hadn't said anything in several minutes.

"Er… Sit anywhere you like. Would you like some tea? Or should we just get started? I haven't cracked a book in ages, so you'll have your work cut out for you. I also have coffee, if you prefer coffee. But no pumpkin juice, I'm out of that, and the grocery down the corner is a Muggle one and they don't carry it. I do have some ginger beer. It's a Muggle drink. It's not really beer, but it's brilliant. I hope you can go easy on me, though, with the Potions. Not like Snape… I mean, he was alright, in the end, but you know… I'm pants at Potions. You're not hungry are you?" It all came out in a horrifying rush, then ended just as abruptly. However, the upside was that Malfoy's expression had turned from a blank, impassive mask to one of sly amusement.

"Relax, Potter. I am neither thirsty nor hungry, and we really should get started. We have a lot to cover in the next few hours."

Harry sighed and felt his body unclench a bit. He collapsed unceremoniously into the squashy couch. "Ok, where do we begin?"

"First of all, I'd like to get a sense of where you are in your studies. To that end, I will be administering a diagnostic test. After that, we will set about to making a potion. I assume you were able to acquire the basic potion-making supplies on the list I owled last week?"

"Yes, I have. I set it all up in the kitchen. Seemed like the best place."

Malfoy nodded, looking down amongst the bags that Harry just realized he was carrying. He opened the smallest, a black leather briefcase with a silver handle and elegant silver clasps shaped like snakes. Inside there were neat rolls of parchment, each tied with a leather strip labeled in a neat, spare hand. Malfoy removed the scroll and untied its closure. He handed it to Harry and then dug out a quill from another bag.

"The quill is charmed, so you won't need any ink. Please begin."

Harry attempted a smile, but it faltered as he uncurled the scroll. It seemed to go on forever. He stared at the first question.

_Amortentia can be made more or less potent by the addition of what herb during the cooling phase of brewing?_

_Lavender_

_Soapwort_

_Basil_

_Sage_

_What the hell is soapwort?_ Harry wondered silently. After a moment of puzzling, he just chose blindly, hoping for the best. He glanced up at Malfoy, who was sitting with perfect posture and complete composure in the chair opposite. Malfoy raised his eyebrows very slightly, but said nothing. Harry sighed. Question two: _Which potion is the fastest acting antidote to Basilisk venom?_ Why did Potions only remind him of his most morbid memories from Hogwarts? He gritted his teeth and pressed on.

It took Harry more than three hours to finish the test, during which time Malfoy simply sat, unmoving, across from him, watching with a cool disinterest. Harry thought the parchment must be spelled to continue infinitely, because as he continued to unroll it he could never seem to reach the bottom edge. When he finally came to the last question he had to stop himself from letting out a cry of triumph. _What final ingredient is added to polyjuice potion in order to activate it?_ Hair from the person the drinker wishes to transform into, Harry wrote. He threw down the quill with relish and looked up at Draco.

"Finished."

"Already? Don't want to check any of your answers?" Draco drawled. Harry started a bit—it was the sort of thing Hermione might say to him, and it felt strange coming from Draco's mouth.

"Already! It's after noon, I've been at this for ages and I'm starving. Could do with some lunch. Besides, I thought this was supposed to be a diagnostic."

"It is."

"Well, there you go," he said, shoving the parchment towards Malfoy, "diagnose me. Whatever abysmal score I make on this thing, at least you'll know what you're dealing with. Now, can we get some food? I don't think I can make it through the potion-making part of this test without a sandwich."

Malfoy's mouth twisted into an amused smirk. "Alright, let us adjourn for now. Will we be lunching here at Grimmauld Place?"

Harry grinned, in part at Malfoy's somewhat forced formality and in part at the subtle implication that he might not have food in his flat.

"Come to the kitchen, I'll make us something."

"Will you indeed? So the famous Harry Potter cooks."

"Oh shut it, Malfoy, or I won't make anything for you. And I know you must be hungry too."

"Alright then, lead on."

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was, in fact, Harry's favorite room in the house. Even when he was at the Dursley's as a child, Harry had always found comfort in cooking. Later, when he was renovating the dark and memory-filled flat, the kitchen had often been the only room not in a state of disarray, a place to get away from paint fumes and plaster dust and surprisingly resilient portraits that yelled at him for being a bloodtraitor.

He rummaged in the fridge and the pantry and assembled on the counter a large cucumber, a block of very fancy and expensive mozzarella, a couple of tomatoes, and fresh basil. He got out a large bowl, a knife, and a cutting board and began to assemble the salad, supremely aware that Malfoy was still there, sitting at the kitchen table, watching him with that same look of disinterested interest.

"So, er, Malfoy…."

"Please do call me Draco. We aren't in school anymore."

"Yeah, alright Draco. But then you have to call me Harry, not Potter."

Draco smirked, as though at a private joke. "Yes, Harry. What is it?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Ask away."

"Why are you my tutor?"

"Because you asked me to be. You applied to McGonagall, and here I am."

"You know what I mean, Draco. Why are you a tutor at all? You've never exactly been one for teaching people."

Draco looked down at his hands resting on the table for a moment before he spoke. "I did very well on my NEWTS last year. Top of the class, except for Hermione."

"Congratulations?" Harry said, hesitantly. There was something in Draco's voice that made him feel uncomfortably like he was hearing a confession.

"Thank you. However, despite this, I had a very hard time finding a Potions Master who was willing to take me on as an apprentice."

"Oh," was all Harry could think of to say. He was surprised, but he supposed it made sense. The war was over, but the knowledge that the Malfoys had sheltered Voldemort in their home for months had seeped out into the general populace, and Harry couldn't imagine that everyone would be able to forget that so soon.

"In the long run, I suppose it won't matter, I have plenty of money. I could open my own apothecary tomorrow, but I wouldn't have the necessary credentials." He paused, continuing to look resolutely at his hands, resting on the table. "I decided I needed to prove myself outside of school. I need to show the world that I want to help people. That I want to make things right. I guess tutoring is one of the ways I am going about it."

"Yeah, but why tutoring?"

"Like you, not everyone came back to Hogwarts for the so-called eighth year, and many of those who did not return were very bitter about it. Or their parents were. Tutoring seemed like a good way to make it up to them. To provide them with the tools they needed to get back into the world, to get jobs, to move on from the war."

Harry sighed, adding the last of the cucumber to the bowl. He didn't _feel _bitter, but he knew that he was one of those people—too scared after the last battle was won to go back and face the hallways of the school he had loved so much.

"What else do you do?"

"What is this, an interrogation? I hardly think we should be spending the day discussing _my _life." Draco's voice was not harsh, merely weary, and Harry shrugged.

He set the bowl on the table and returned to the fridge, fishing out bread, mustard, a wedge of very sharp cheddar, and some sliced chicken. He paused for a moment, then said, "Alright. You can ask about my life too."

There was a long pause during which neither of them said anything. Finally, Draco sighed, "what makes you think I give a damn about your life?" His tone was nonchalant, but when Harry glanced at his face he saw a mixture of challenge and petulance in his eyes.

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Just thought I'd make it fair. To be honest, I don't see that many people. Just Hermione, Ron and his family, and sometimes Neville or Luna. I don't really know what's going on out there. Or what people are feeling—about their lives and about the war. I guess I'm curious." The words came out grudgingly, but as he said them, Harry knew they were true. As much as he avoided thinking about the war himself, he did want to know what other people felt. He wanted to know what Draco felt. He was, painfully, very curious.

Harry finished with the sandwiches and set down the two plates at the table, one in front of Draco and the other in front of himself. He scooped a bit of the cucumber salad onto his plate and began to eat. Draco studied him for a moment.

"Did you and Ginny break up?" Draco said, finally, picking up his sandwich and taking a small, hesitant bite. Harry nearly choked on his cucumber salad.

"_That's _your first question? Of all the things…"

"Yes. It is. And you haven't answered."

"Yeah, we broke up the summer after the war, when I first moved in here."

"Is that all you are going to tell me, or are you going to expand upon why the Golden Couple split up so quickly after declaring their love to the world?"

Harry rolled his eyes. Golden Couple. Hardly. "It wasn't like that. With me and Ginny, I mean. We loved each other, but after the war… things were hard. Ginny lost her brother in that war, and loads of friends as well. Things at the Burrow were pretty tense most of the time, you know, depressing and stifling. I was starting to renovate this place, and Ginny spent a lot of time over here and we found out we were better as mates than as… well, you know, anything more."

"That's it?"

"Well, also she sort of kind of fell for my neighbor."

"Did she?"

"Yeah. A Muggle. Named Eleanor."

This time it was Draco who nearly choked. "Ginny Weasley left you for a Muggle woman named Eleanor? Harry, you really know how to bury the lead, do you know that?"

"Yeah. I used to tell myself that Ginny just wanted someone who was the opposite of me—you know, someone who didn't know about the war, someone who wasn't associated with all those painful memories. Someone she could just be happy and seventeen with."

"Someone who was a woman," Draco muttered.

"But, it turns out they're really brilliant together. Eleanor is smart and cool, knows all sorts of bands and things around town. Always dragging Ginny around to these hip Muggle clubs and art shows. Ginny seems really happy."

"Does this Muggle know that she's dating a witch?"

"No, Ginny hasn't told. I think she's gearing up to, though, now that she's done with Hogwarts and all that. Eleanor is starting to notice that whenever she asks Ginny what she does for work Ginny changes the subject. Can't let her know she's a Seeker for the Harpies."

"No, I suppose not."

"Have I answered sufficiently yet? Is it my turn?"

"I suppose so," Draco says, spearing a chunk of tomato on the end of his fork.

"Why did you go back to Hogwarts last year? Why didn't you just hire tutors, like I'm doing? Surely it would have been easier."

Draco studied the tomato on his fork for a while before answering, his tone measured and slow, as though he were explaining it to himself as much as to Harry.

"Even though Hogwarts held a lot of painful memories, being at the Manor was much worse. I couldn't wait to go back. I think I thought, perhaps naively, that I might be able to recapture something of my best days at school—when I was popular in Slytherin, when I got worked up about stupid things like the House Cup and Quidditch games, that sort of thing."

"What was it like, being back there?"

"Didn't Granger and Weasley tell you?"

"I never asked. Hermione just went on about her grades and homework and whether or not she would pass her NEWTS. Ron said the same thing every time we talked: 'wish you were here, mate. Quidditch isn't the same without you and Hermione makes me spend all my time studying.'"

Draco laughed at his impression of Ron, the first laughter Harry had seen from him since he arrived. "Yes, I suppose that's about right. Anyway, it was awful, being back. Every room seemed like a reminder of all the stupid things I did before the war. The Potions classroom reminded me of Snape and how he tried, and failed, to save me. The Astronomy Tower, the Room of Requirement, the Quidditch Pitch—"

"The Sixth Floor bathroom," Harry whispered. There was a tension-filled pause and he looked up at Draco, immediately regretting having brought up the bathroom incident. Draco's candor had disappeared, and the cool, disinterested mask was back over his features. Their eyes met and locked for what seemed to be minutes, and Harry felt desperate to say something to indicate how sorry he was for that day, for that year, for all the years he had known Draco. _I've made mistakes too_, he wanted to scream. But instead he just stared.

Draco broke away first, pushed his plate with the sandwich still half-eaten across the table and stood.

"I think that's enough reminiscing for one day. I would like to finish your assessment now, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. Let's make a potion."

Friday rolled around with Harry feeling exhausted. After the disaster at lunch on Tuesday, Harry's potion making attempt had bordered on dangerous. He'd broken three flasks, set his hair on fire, and succeeded in making a potion so tar-like and thick that he could barely sieve it into the flask to hand over to Draco for grading.

Thursday's Transfiguration lesson had not been much better. It had started the same way—Draco had produced a seemingly endless scroll with questions that seemed specifically designed to reduce Harry to a blubbering mess. It took him nearly twice as long to finish as the Potions exam and he'd broken three quills in agitation along the way. Lunch had been solemn and silent and brief, followed by an afternoon of trying to turn thimbles into wristwatches. By the time Draco had departed at five o'clock, all Harry had to show for the day were twelve amorphous lumps of metal that would neither protect his fingers from errant needles nor tell him the time of day.

He was profoundly dispirited. Not only was he convinced that the events of the week proved once and for all that he would never pass his NEWTS, but he found himself equally angry that his apparent reconciliation with Draco had ended so abruptly and with such finality. It seemed to represent all of his failures since the war. Sure, he could defeat the Dark Lord, but he couldn't carry on one decent conversation with Draco Malfoy without saying the wrong thing.

All of which combined to make him particularly happy to have Ron in his living room, drinking a butterbeer and complaining loudly of the Cannon's dismal performance against the Kestrals, Auror training, and Hermione's propensity to read law books during their dates.

"Seriously, mate, I don't know if I can carry on. Sometimes I think I must be mental. I mean, if you were the smartest witch in our year, maybe in our generation, would you be on with me?"

"Ron, if you are asking me if I'd consider dating you, I'm afraid the answer is always going to be no."

"Oi, not you too. After Charlie and Ginny, I don't think mum can handle another gay child."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not her child, then, isn't it?" Harry said, smiling broadly. Ron gave him a skeptical look.

"Harry, first of all, you know you're family. Mum likes you better than me on her best days." Harry grunted a sound of dissent, but Ron spoke louder over his protest, "second of all, you do know that you have all but just admitted that you're bent."

Harry colored. He had kind of walked into that.

"You're not are you?"

"Bent? No. Definitely not," Harry said, still blushing. To change the subject, he decided to tell Ron about his disasters in being tutored.

"You'll never guess who my new tutor is."

"Oh yeah, how's that going?" Ron said, brightly. "It's not Romilda Vane, is it? The one who tried to slip you love potion?"

"No, it's not a girl."

"Huh… must be someone we know. Uh, Dean Thomas? No? Ernie McMillan? No? Cormac McClaggan, that git! No? Uh… how about Theo Nott?"

"It's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

Ron sputtered his butterbeer across the room.

"You're joking. That must have been _murder_."

"It wasn't. At first at least. We actually got on ok and we talked about some stuff."

"At first?"

"Yeah, well, I kind of brought up that time I cursed Malfoy in sixth year."

"Sectumsempra?"

"That'd be the one."

"Well, that was daft," Ron said, matter of factly.

"Oi! I didn't do it on purpose, it just slipped out."

"Well, you want my advice, you have to just be a professional. Don't let things get personal. This is a business interaction—you're paying him to teach you. You just have to let him know that it's all business and he'll ease up."

"Is this advice from Auror training?"

Ron looked guiltily at Harry. "Yeah, a bit. It doesn't bother you, does it? Me being in training?"

Harry sighed. He'd never admit it, but he kind of enjoyed that Ron was getting a leg up on Auror training. It seemed to make up for all the years where Harry was ahead of Ron—it gave Ron the advantage, for once, of not having to compete.

"No, it doesn't bother me. I'll get there. I'm just not ready yet."

"Yeah, you'll get there, mate."

Harry spent his weekend at the Muggle library. He thought at first that he should be studying, trying to get some kind of edge for his next confrontation with Draco, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he was plowing through a tattered mystery novel with a lurid cover. The dialogue was stilted, but the plot clipped along with plenty of death and destruction. _Sort of like my relationship with Draco_, he thought.

He spent Monday thoroughly neglecting his studies, much to the exasperation of Hermione, who tried valiantly to get him through what he recognized as a rather remedial Charms lesson any fifth year should have aced. After she left, he spent the next few hours preparing a long speech for Draco. He'd tell him how their arrangement was purely academic, that he didn't care about what had happened before the war or after. All he cared about was a fresh start, for both of them. In his mind it all sounded rather grand, but he knew he'd fail to deliver it with quite as much magnanimity.

It turned out that he didn't get to deliver it at all. When he opened the door for Draco Tuesday morning, his attempts at grandiosity were immediately stifled by Draco's drawling voice.

"I'm happy to announce, Mr. Potter, that your D in Potions work is only surpassed by the T you have earned in Transfiguration."

Harry smiled weakly. "T?"

"Yes, a T. For Troll. And there is no reason at all to look smug about it. Now, are you planning to let me in or would you rather I stand outside on the front stoop for the remainder of today's lesson?"

Harry stepped aside and ushered Malfoy in. When they were both settled in the living room, he was surprised that Malfoy was the first to speak, and with a gentleness to his tone that sent an odd thrill through Harry's spine.

"Harry, I want to apologize for last week. I should have been better prepared for the turn in our conversation but…" he paused, than continued, "but I wasn't. I've tried to remind myself that this is a strictly business interaction, but… well, it's not."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. This had not at all been his expectation.

"You and I have a history together." Harry felt his eyes widen, and a flush creep up his neck. "There's no need to look so shocked, you know it as well as I do. And, if you would like to move past this I have a proposition."

Harry gulped, causing Draco to roll his eyes.

"Not that kind of proposition, you prat. I mean a plan. I think we should talk, every day, at lunch. We each get one question, and the other has to answer truthfully and to the satisfaction of the other party. Neither can refuse to answer the other's question, and neither of us is allowed to get angry at what the other says."

"How is this going to help my schoolwork," Harry put in, finally.

"Harry, you are not, despite appearances, an idiot. But when you are distracted or distressed it shows in your work. Unless you relax around me, you'll never learn anything. And, frankly, I think we both need answers." Draco's expression was calm, but in his eyes Harry could see a hint of apprehension.

"Ok. At lunch, then. One question each." Draco's mouth quirked into a hint of a smile, and Harry felt his body start to relax, muscles he hadn't realized he was tensing beginning to release.

The morning's Potion's lesson turned out to be not too horrid, as well. Draco began by outlining what they would be covering for the next few weeks. He showed Harry his exam from the previous week and patiently went over what he thought were Harry's biggest problem areas.

"Your biggest hindrance is that you tackle every question as though it's an isolated question, as though there is only a right or a wrong answer, and then you move on."

"Sorry, Draco, but isn't there only one right answer? I mean, it's multiple choice. You either get it or you don't."

Draco smiled, "Yes, but it's all part of a big system. When you get a question right here it's because you happen to remember the answer, or because you've guessed. But if you understood the underlying theory, the properties of ingredients that make them act one way or another, then you wouldn't need to guess or hope you happen to remember. You'd be able to work it out, like a puzzle. There would be a clear answer every time, because the other options wouldn't fit."

"I've never thought of it like that. I always just took it one Potion at a time. Either the ingredients came together, or they didn't."

Draco smiled ruefully, "Harry, that's actually encouraging. If you have been doing as well as you have working off of blind luck you must have some natural talent."

"So I'm not hopeless, then?"

"No, not quite hopeless."

Lunch was leftovers, of a sort—some chicken salad Harry had made to use up the last of a roast chicken, with cress on a crusty baguette.

"This is very good, Harry. Is it from the Leaky Cauldron?"

"Is that your question for the day?"

Draco rolled his eyes, "No, just making conversation."

"I made it, if you must know."

Draco inclined his head slightly. "Well, then, my compliments to the chef." Harry chortled. There was a brief silence before he began his next sally.

"So… can I ask my question, then?"

"Been thinking about it all afternoon?"

Harry blushed. He had been thinking about a lot of things that afternoon—how different Draco's face looked when he smiled, wondering where Draco bought his cologne, studying Draco's dark trousers and wondering if he bought them at a wizarding shop or a Muggle one—but he hadn't needed to think of a question. He had plenty already.

"Hmmm, I guess so. Anyway I was wondering… I was wondering what happened to your parents?"

Draco looked startled, as though he'd been slapped.

"Sorry, I mean, we could start with something easier… I didn't mean to… that is… I, er… if it's a sore subject you don't need to…"

"It's fine, Harry," Draco said, quietly. "I made the rules, I can follow them." He picked up his water glass and took a deep drink. Harry watched his adam's apple bob. He had a very aristocratic throat—pale and white, but still somehow strong. He set down the glass and his grey eyes met Harry's, causing Harry to gasp a little at the intensity.

"My father is dead. Shortly after the last battle, he killed himself. We had all returned to the Manor. It looked like… well, it looked like a war had taken place there. He did it the first night, while we were asleep."

"How…" Harry began, but didn't quite finish.

"A potion. He didn't want to come back as a ghost, I think, so he chose something rather gentle. I think he really wanted peace, after all. He'd seen everything he believed in held up to a mirror, and seen how ugly it all was. I think he couldn't imagine the world would stay at peace with him in it. I like to think he thought he was sacrificing himself to that, although maybe he just wanted a coward's way out." Draco's voice was very matter-of-fact, and Harry got the sense he had come to these conclusions after many discussions with someone. Harry wondered who he had trusted enough to talk to.

"My mother is still alive. She's living in France, currently. She found his body—my father, I mean—and she cleaned up the mess, like she always does. But after that, I think she needed a clean break. I was going back to Hogwarts for year eight, and she decided to reconnect with some distant relatives in Aix. She writes. Not very long letters, but she always sends tokens—pressed flowers, or little pictures, or ribbons, or shells, mementos of her days."

"Do you miss her?"

"Every day." Draco paused, as though he was about to say something, but then held back.

"What? What is it?"

"It's nothing."

"Come on, Malfoy, out with it."

"Well, I guess it's just that… I'm sorry, for all those things I said about your parents being dead, before, when we were in school. I was an idiot. I didn't… understand."

Harry sighed. Strangely, his thoughts turned to the Mirror of Erised.

"Sometimes I think I might be lucky."

"Lucky? That your parents are dead," Draco said, incredulously.

"No, I don't mean it like that. It's just—well, I never knew my parents. So I got to think of them always as this ideal. I never knew the bad parts. They were always perfect to me. I think if they had lived…" he struggled to come up with the right words. "Look, I just mean that nobody is perfect. Not even my parents. And if I had known them better I'd have had to figure that out. And it would have been painful."

Draco nodded.

"Do you have a question for me?" Harry asked, hoping to change the subject. He was rewarded by a smirk from Draco.

"You just cannot wait to talk about yourself, can you?"

Harry blushed, but didn't say anything.

"Why do you live in my family's ancestral home?"

Harry laughed—a full, throaty laugh. The question was both very unexpected and very Draco.

"I inherited it from Sirius Black," Harry said, eyes twinkling.

"No, I'm sorry, that is not an acceptable answer. First of all, Sirius Black was the guy who got your parents killed. And second of all… well, there is no second of all because the first of all negates all other possibilities."

"Wow, you really were a minor foot soldier in Voldemort's army, weren't you?" Draco blanched slightly at the word "Voldemort," but drew himself up a little haughtier just the same.

"You say that like it is a bad thing. But yes, they never told me anything if they could help it, and I didn't tend to ask because most of the time I figured it was better not to know."

"Well, Sirius was never on Voldemort's side, and he never betrayed my parents. His whole so-called mass-murder was orchestrated by Peter Pettigrew."

"Wormtail? You've got to be joking."

Harry grimaced, "no, I'm not. Believe me, it's not something I would joke about."

"This still doesn't explain why he left you his family home."

Harry shrugged. "He was my godfather. He left me everything. House, money, flying motorbike."

"You know I used to come here, as a child. This place always gave me nightmares."

"I can imagine. All those decapitated house elves."

"Yes, I must say the décor has rather improved since then," Draco drawled. He looked pointedly at the little stained glass window Luna had given Harry for his birthday. "With a few notable exceptions."

"Hey! I'll have you know that since I put that in the window I haven't seen a single Nargle!"

Draco snorted. "Harry, I can't even dignify that non-sense with a reply."

They cleared the plates and moved back to the living room. Over the next hour, Draco explained the properties of herbs to Harry, classing them into groups and talking about their essences. Harry scribbled diligent notes, feeling decidedly less nervous. After a while, Draco pulled out a little kit containing lots of different herbs—dried and fresh—and a little vial of oil. He had Harry suspend each of the herbs in turn in the oil and they studied their properties using a probing spell.

"This basil… I expected it to be more… I dunno, harsh. But it's actually quite sweet."

"Yes, and as you can see it has properties that can cause it to act as a blood thinner."

"Uh, yeah…"

"Which means?"

Harry screwed his face in concentration. A puzzle, Draco had said. And it would fit in somewhere that other pieces wouldn't. "Ok, well, people, I mean Muggles, take blood thinning medicine to help their hearts beat, you know, to stop heart attacks."

"And?"

"So, if it helps blood flow then it would be helpful in Amortentia because it would distribute the potion quickly through the blood stream."

"Yes, and it would counteract the affects of mugweed, a common ingredient in Amortentia that is also a coagulant." Draco finished.

"So, that answers the first question on the test."

"Not quite," Draco drawled. "You know why Basil would make a good answer to this question, but you don't yet know why the other three won't work."

"Is this the part where I get to find out what Soapwort even is?"

After Draco left, Harry realized he was actually sad to see him go. And, for the first time in a long time, he was actually looking forward to more Potions practice next week. He felt like an intellectual giant, and decided to celebrate by getting started on his Transfiguration reading for Thursday.

He gave up after a few minutes of reading, though, and instead firecalled Ron at the Burrow.

"So, how was it? Did you take my advice?"

"I was going to, but Draco kind of beat me to it."

"So what happened then? All business?"

"Actually, we talked about a lot of personal stuff—our parents, Sirius, Vol—"

"You don't need to say it," Ron cut in, jittery. Since Voldemort had died Ron had reverted back to an intense dislike of saying his name.

"It was kind of brilliant. He didn't hold anything back."

"And this was his idea?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Are you two becoming friends?" Ron's face looked particularly skeptical at the possibility of befriending Malfoy.

"He's changed. I've changed."

"That's not quite an answer."

"I don't know. I guess anything seems possible after everything, you know."

Ron nodded slowly, and Harry noticed there was something in his eyes, like a question hovering unasked. Then the moment passed and he spoke again.

"Yeah, mate. Anything is possible."

For Thursday's lunch Harry made paninis with goat cheese, prosciutto, roasted tomatoes, and homemade pesto. They were delicious, and Harry had to admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, he was showing off a little bit making lunch. But it was totally worth it to watch Draco's satisfied eating—he wasn't demonstrative, but Harry could tell he was enjoying himself.

"You should go first today, since I went first last time."

"My my, you are very eager to talk about yourself today."

"You know if you don't have a question ready I could just ask you two."

"I have a question," Draco replied calmly. "How did you know what happened when Dumbledore died?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the summer after the war, during the tribunals, you gave testimony that cleared me, and cleared Severus Snape, and you knew all these details you couldn't possibly have known about what happened that night. I saw it in the papers, but they didn't say how you knew."

"I was there."

"No, I was there and you were not. I would have seen you."

"I was under an Invisibility Cloak." Draco's eyes went wide. Harry suppressed a grimace. Under normal circumstances, he would rather have enjoyed needling Draco about all the times he'd used that cloak at Hogwarts to get into trouble, but that particular night was wholly unpleasant to recall.

"Dumbledore and I were working on a plan to defeat Voldemort. It was dangerous and it involved a lot of secrecy. That night we had just come back from a rather excruciating trip, during which I had been forced to feed Dumbledore poison. In the end, the whole thing was useless—the thing we were trying to retrieve wasn't even there, we'd been duped, and Dumbledore died because I had weakened him to the point…" Harry's voice broke and he let himself just trail off. There was a long and awkward pause while Harry regained his composure, then he began again.

"If Hermione were here she'd yell at me for blaming myself. And she's right. The real truth is that Dumbledore was already dying, even before the poison, and that he asked Severus to kill him, so that you wouldn't have to. He wanted his death to at least be able to save you."

"I don't know if I was worth saving back then," Draco said quietly.

"Are you worth it now?" Harry asked.

"Is that your question for the day?" Draco replied, with a small smile. Harry shook his head.

"No. No, don't answer that. Of course you are worth it." Draco looked a bit surprised. "I mean, all life is worth saving. I really believe that."

"How Hufflepuff of you."

"Yeah, well, maybe I got sorted wrong."

"Alright then, if that's not your real question, what is? What do you want to know?"

"Do you fancy blokes?" Harry choked out, feeling himself flush bright red, although he couldn't exactly say why he found this so embarrassing to ask.

"Why do you ask," Draco said, warily.

"Ron. He told me that he thought you and Blaise might have had something going on during eighth year—that you spent all your time together, always so close."

Draco laughed, a bright merry laugh that made Harry feel at once very foolish and very delighted.

"Blaise and I did not ever have 'something going on'—we spent all our time together because we were afraid of getting out arses hexed off by every student who still held a grudge from the war."

"But…?"

"But yes, I do fancy blokes, as you so elegantly put it." Draco primly set his hands on the table in front of himself, neatly folded. Harry smiled, feeling very pleased with himself, but not quite knowing why this knowledge pleased him so much. So Draco was gay? He didn't have a problem with that. Why should he?

"Ok, so how do you know, though. Have you ever…"

Draco sighed, "I've always known, I guess. Never fancied a girl. And yes, I have had experiences with boys."

"Who? Who did you have experiences with? It must be someone I know!"

"Someone you know well, in fact. My first boyfriend, if you can call it that, was Cedric Diggory."

"He was with Cho Chang."

"I know. I was just a fling for him. It was a secret. I thought about coming out with it a few times, during the Tri-wizard tournament, but I didn't have the heart. He had so much going on. Then he just… then he was just gone."

Harry blinked. For some reason he thought about Dudley Dursley, who had laughed at him for saying Cedric's name in his sleep and asked if Cedric were his boyfriend.

"I saw him die."

"I know that now."

"Now?"

"Harry, at the time, I didn't know what to know. I knew that Voldemort had returned, but no one in my family would talk about it. I knew that this boy who had kissed me, had told me he loved me, had promised that when the tournament ended he would tell the world about us, had died. And I knew that you were there when it happened. And I hated you, so much, for being there for that. For knowing what I would never know. I blamed you, for a long time, for his death."

"I had no idea." Harry was extremely thrown. He suddenly understood, with blinding clarity, why Draco had changed so drastically between fourth year and fifth. In the early years at Hogwarts, they had been rivals, and had pranked one another and thrown jabs about each other's parents. But during year five, something had changed—Draco was darker, more violent, more vindictive. His grim pleasure in the inquisitorial squad and his determined solitude during their sixth year suddenly slammed into Harry's view for the first time as signs that something very traumatic had happened for him.

"Was there anyone else?"

"Ernie McMillan. In sixth year. We had a few… encounters, but they didn't mean anything. I don't think I felt much that year—I was so numb."

Harry studied Draco for several minutes. He looked very different now from how he had been at sixteen—his hair was shorter, and somewhat wavy, and his face seemed less drawn and thin. He was dressed neatly and simply—his button down shirt and dark gray trousers looked expensive, but were not ostentatious. He had his shirt-sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and Harry could see the Dark Mark, still sharp and black as though it had been received only yesterday. He looked older than his nineteen years. When Draco looked up and caught Harry staring, he finally looked away. Something inside him was shifting—he could feel it. He didn't know what would happen next, but everything felt like it was changing.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: This ends kind of abruptly-I have more plots in my brain, but haven't gotten them down on paper, so if you have strong feelings about where you think this could go next let me know-I welcome feedback. I've also tried to make my scene breaks clearer in this chapter-I think they disappeared in chapter one and I haven't been able to go back and fix it. Alas! **

**Just a warning that there is some talk about abuse in this chapter-nothing too difficult, I think, but worth a trigger warning. **

Monday's Charms lesson went so spectacularly well that Hermione actually stopped halfway through to inspect Harry's wand for signs of tampering.

"I don't know why you don't trust me."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You and Ron would break any rule known to man if you thought you wouldn't get caught. You are both completely unscrupulous. And anyway, if there is a trust issue in this friendship I don't think it's on my end."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You told Ron, but you didn't tell me, that Draco Malfoy is your tutor for Potions and Transfiguration?"

Harry looked guiltily at his feet. "I'm sorry, 'Mione. I just don't see as much of you lately because I know you're busy and I didn't want to bother."

"Well, I'm here now, so now's your chance." She sat down on the sofa with an expectant look on her face, and Harry noticed that she pointedly still hadn't returned his wand.

"Alright. You want me to tell you something I haven't told Ron yet?" Harry asked. Hermione said nothing, but nodded tersely.

"Draco is gay."

"You may not have told Ron that, but I believe he already knows."

"Yeah, well. Draco told me he had a secret relationship with Cedric Diggory, right up until the time Cedric died."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Well, that certainly would explain a lot. Poor Cho, though."

"I know. I wonder if she knew back then, or if she ever found out after."

Hermione pursed her lips, making a face Harry felt sure would shortly precede an uncomfortable observation.

"Harry, can I ask you a question—but please don't get mad at me about it."

"Of course."

"Why would Draco tell you something like that? It's incredibly personal. And Ron said you talked about your parents as well? What's going on?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Harry, it's not like the two of you were ever close. You haven't talked about these kinds of things—your parents especially—since the war ended. Why are you talking about them now, with Draco Malfoy?"

"I know it seems weird. But, I think that it helps that we weren't friends before. It's like… he doesn't have these pre-conceived notions about me like everyone else. And it helps me to hear things from his point of view. I understand it better when I think about it from the other side."

Hermione fixed him with a gaze that reminded him forcibly of Ron's questioning look in the fire the other night.

"Well, for the record, Harry, I'm glad you've found someone to talk to. I was worried about you. All of us have been."

"Well, worry no more. Apparently Draco Malfoy is here to save my soul, as well as my Potions NEWT," Harry said, wryly.

"Sarcasm aside, you do know that he is one of the cleverest wizards in our year. We were Potions partners for all of eighth year."

"You never told me that."

"Well I certainly wasn't going to partner with Ron. I mean I love him and all, but he's a huge distraction."

Harry laughed.

"Draco was… very polite," Hermione went on. "He always asked how I was, every day—he even asked about my parents at Christmas. He apologized for how he had acted towards me before the war and then he never mentioned it again. He certainly did not spill any deeply guarded secrets."

"I don't know what you are getting at, Hermione."

"I'm not getting at anything. I just want you to know that I like Draco, in spite of everything. And I just think you should consider the fact that you have learned more about him in two weeks than I did in an entire year at Hogwarts."

That night, Harry had a dream. More properly, Harry had a nightmare.

It began in the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursley's house in Little Whinging. Harry was there, under the cupboard, but grown. The space was even more cramped than he remembered it as a child, and filled with the same nauseating mixture of safety—in the cupboard, he was out of the way of Vernon's anger and swinging fists—and fear—once in the cupboard, he was never sure if he'd be let out, or if he'd be let out. It might be an hour or it might be two days, he never knew.

He could see a light on the other side of the cupboard door, and hear voices, but the voices weren't the voices of the Dursley's. It was the Wizengamot. It was the tribunal after the war, and he could hear himself testifying, except it couldn't be him because he was trapped in the cupboard. He strained to hear what he was saying, but he couldn't quite make it out. He wanted to pound on the door and ask to be released, but he couldn't make his limbs move. It was going all wrong. The other Harry, the one on the outside of the cupboard, was saying all the wrong things. He was telling lies about Draco. He didn't understand. Harry tried to drag his arms to the door, but he couldn't make a fist. He heard the sentence—Draco would be given the Dementor's kiss.

The walls seemed to close in on him and he felt as though he were suffocating. He woke with a start, drenched in sweat, panting as though he'd just run a marathon. He slowly dragged his legs off the bed and pulled himself towards the bathroom.

His face in the mirror looked a bit like it had received the Dementor's kiss—dark circles made his eyes look like bruises in his face, and his cheeks were a dull gray color, drained of all blood. His hair, never the tidiest, was a tangled mess, sticking up at all angles. He turned the hot water tap on and washed his face, then used a comb to smooth down his hair. It was useless. He knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, and he knew he would therefore looked like warmed over death when Draco arrived in the morning. Distantly, he wondered why he cared whether Draco saw him looking knackered, but he let it go and slumped wearily back to bed.

On his bedside table was a Dashiell Hammett novel he'd checked out from the Muggle library, and he began to read.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Harry, don't take this the wrong way, but you look a bit… tired. Is everything alright?" Draco's tone was light, but his eye's betrayed a genuine concern.

"Yeah, just bad dreams is all. You know how it is." Harry raked a hand through his hair and collapsed onto the sofa. Draco sat himself neatly on the other end of the sofa and carefully set down his briefcase.

"Do you dream about him?"

Harry shrugged. "Not really. Not anymore. I used to all the time, when he was alive. We were… linked. I could see his dreams, or see into his mind, or see what was happening to him."

"And that doesn't happen anymore?"

"No, ended when he died."

"And being linked to the darkest wizard in a millennium doesn't give you nightmares after the fact?"

Harry grinned. "No, oddly it doesn't. My bad dreams are usually about other stuff. You know, not wizard stuff." Draco glanced at him askance, but didn't comment.

"Well, your nightmares will not prepare you for your NEWTS. So, I suggest we get started today by preparing a Draught of Invisibility."

They moved to the kitchen, where Harry had set up a little potions station at the kitchen table, according to Draco's instructions. Harry's sleepless night had had some upsides—after he'd finished the detective novel, he'd read through the lesson on the Draught of Invisibility, so as soon as he arrived in the kitchen he began to assemble the necessary ingredients. Draco seemed pleased as he began to heat a cauldron of water and chop a handful of chameleon tails to throw in once the water boiled.

"Very good, Mr. Potter. Now, kindly explain to me the reason for adding the chameleon tails before the onion root."

"The chameleon tails take longer to break down, and need to be boiled for at least forty minutes before they will be soft enough to mix with the other ingredients. Furthermore, after thirty minutes the bones in the tails will begin to leach marrow into the water. The onion root reacts to the marrow, creating a kind of broth that is the base for the rest of the potion."

"You did your reading," Draco said, flatly, as though unimpressed, but he moved over to stand next to Harry and began to assist in the preparation of the remaining ingredients. It was a small gesture that seemed to signal to Harry Draco's approval. He showed Harry how to split a unicorn hair and how to properly skin a dung beetle. By the time the chameleon tails had softened, they had all the ingredients separated out, ready to be incorporated in the correct order. Harry added the onion root and held out his wand to begin the mixing incantation, but Draco stopped him, capturing his wrist with slender fingers. Harry shivered, unexpectedly, at the touch, and turned to find Draco's face close to his own.

"You flourish your wand too much when you stir. You should have a more refined technique—a different wand movement suited to different potions."

Harry swallowed thickly. "Show me?"

Draco waved his wand slowly over the cauldron, his wrist held stiff, but the fingers moving lightly up and down as his hand circled the mixture in a single deft circle. He stepped back from the cauldron.

"That motion is for a slow, steady stirring." Harry nodded and then held out his own hand, wandless, and practiced the movement.

"Good," Draco said. "This one is for a brisker pace, it works best for potions of a thicker viscosity, or that require the rapid incorporation of many ingredients without stopping." He held out his hand and made a swift, decisive circle terminated by a curt flick of the wand. Harry stared at Draco's hands, which he had never quite noticed before. They seemed so capable and sure, long fingers curled around the hawthorn wand. Harry wasn't sure if he was meant to keep copying Draco, but he felt incapable of moving, so he just watched as Draco showed him three more variations on the wand movement. The way Draco moved his hands was almost hypnotic.

They finished the potion in relative silence—Draco corrected Harry's wand motions without comment, making Harry's pulse jump just a little with each touch, and occasionally made an encouraging noise when Harry completed a step in the instructions, but otherwise they said little. When the potion was finished, Harry slipped it into a vial and handed it over for inspection.

"Some potions just work, as made, but others require a further step after they have been brewed—a catalyst that changes the inert ingredients into live magic. This potion is one such. In this case, the catalyst is an incantation. However, since we do not want to vanish any of your kitchen appliances, I suggest that we save the potion testing for the afternoon, and have some lunch first."

Harry grinned, "I think you are just stalling because you have some question you are dying to ask me. But, it will have to wait, because I get to go first today."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You just love to win, don't you?" Harry didn't answer. Instead, he went to the refrigerator and pulled out today's lunch: a rather elaborate pasta salad he had made the night before during his bout of insomnia. He dished out two bowls and set them at the far end of the table, away from the potion's supplies.

"Alright, Draco. Here's my question for the day: have you talked to your aunt since the war ended?"

Draco fixed him with a look that was a mixture of terror and confusion. "Harry, Aunt Bella is dead."

"Not your aunt Bellatrix. I'm talking about Andromeda Tonks."

"Oh," he said, visibly relaxing. "No, I haven't spoken to her since the war. In fact, I've never spoken to her—the falling out she had with my mother happened before I was born. Why on earth would you ask me that?"

"Her grandson is my godson. He's Lupin's son, you know—Teddy."

"No, I didn't know that she had a grandson. Or that he was named Teddy. Or that he was related to Professor Lupin. Or that you had a godson."

"Yeah, well, I thought you might like to meet them one of these days. I visit them sometimes, on the weekends."

Draco inclined his head slightly. "Do you now?"

"Yeah, well, I just thought you might like to come along one of those times."

"So this is less of a question and more of a proposition?" Harry colored at Draco's word choice.

"I thought you were the one with the propositions," Harry replied, rather lamely.

"Indeed," Draco said, raising an eyebrow. Harry coughed. Why did Draco make him so… uncomfortable was the wrong word, because he was undeniably comfortable around Draco, as Hermione had pointed out. They were surprisingly frank with one another. But whenever he was around Draco he felt very aware of his body—of how much space he took up, how awkward his arms felt just dangling at his sides, how hot his face felt, how quickly his heart was beating. He felt hyper-sensitized to every movement he made.

"I have a question too," Draco said quietly, and something about his voice let Harry know that this one would be a tough one. "What did your Muggle relatives do to you to give you nightmares?"

Harry started. "How do you know I have nightmares about my Muggle relatives?"

"Deductive reasoning. You said it wasn't wizard stuff. The only other stuff in your life is your Muggle relations. And I had kind of gathered they were a bit horrible to you, based on a few things Hermione let slip last year."

"You mean when you were Potions partners?"

"So she told you?"

"Yes, but not until recently."

"You haven't answered the question yet."

Harry sighed. He hated talking about the Dursley's. He had never found a way to narrate his life before coming to Hogwarts. He always felt as though he were complaining too much—after all, they'd never seriously injured him, he was sure that other children experienced much worse—but also simultaneously like he was not sufficiently getting across how bad it had been.

"Harry, it's ok. You can tell me." Draco's voice was gentle, and Harry nodded.

"It's not that I don't want to talk about it. I mean, I don't want to talk about it. But I'm ok with telling you about it. I mean I trust you, it's just… hard to find the words."

"I understand."

"My aunt and uncle were… afraid of me. I didn't know that, when I was young. I thought they hated me because I had done something wrong. I used to try to be really good because I hoped that would fix it. But anytime I messed up anything, they would… get angry." He paused. "They hurt me. Especially my uncle. He would hit me, sometimes, when he was angry. Never a punch or a kick—but he'd smack me with the back of his hand, or shake me until I had bruises on my arms. I didn't have a bedroom back then, so they would lock me in the cupboard under the stairs. They did this every night before I went to bed—locked me in. They also locked me in when they thought I had been naughty, and sometimes they would forget to unlock the door for… well, the longest was three days. I had to go to the hospital from dehydration. It was humiliating. The nurse asked me if there was anything wrong at home, but I was too scared to say yes."

"How old were you?"

"Seven. My aunt wasn't as violent, but she could be very cruel, in her own way. She loved to promise me treats—usually a story about my mother, or something like that—but she would always withdraw the promise at the last minute, due to some failure on my part. She told me loads of lies about my parents—that they were depraved degenerates, criminals who stole things and did drugs and all that. And she would always tell me I was just like them." Harry sucked in a big breath. It had been a long time since he had talked to anyone about all of this. "Anyway, in my dreams, I'm back in the cupboard under the stairs and I can't get out. I feel the walls closing in on me and I can't move or scream or do magic, I just have to watch them collapse on me."

Draco's eyes looked wary, but his tone was gentle. He reached a hand over and laid it on top of Harry's. Harry curled his fingers around Draco's, feeling grateful for the simple, human touch. "Harry, they abused you."

"I know. I mean, I know that now."

"Why did you stay there? I mean, after you found out about Hogwarts and the wizarding world? I hear you have a vault full of gold—why didn't you just move off on your own? Or stay with the Weasley's for that matter—you're practically one of them."

"I wanted to, I really did. But Dumbledore wouldn't let me."

"Why not!" Draco exclaimed, incredulously.

"Because of magic."

"Harry, that doesn't even make sense."

"I've thought about it a lot, and it's never made sense to me. But I trusted Dumbledore back then, so I did what he said."

"Back then? So you stopped trusting Dumbledore at some point?"

"No, it's not that. It's just that… well, now I see him as a human being, not as this infallible, wise wizard with an answer for every riddle."

"I'm not sure I understand what you are getting at."

"You know that I volunteer at St. Mungo's every Sunday?" Harry asked.

"I did not know that. Also, why are you changing the subject?"

"I'm not—I swear, it'll loop back around. I volunteer at St. Mungo's in the children's ward, and one of the things I do is help the staff to look for signs of child abuse—it can be really hard to detect with wizard children, because the parents may be good at covering up physical signs with magic. I started doing it last year as a way of coming to terms with my own abuse, and I've come to realize just how hard it is for most adults to admit abuse is happening to children around them, even when the evidence is right in front of them."

"I still don't follow."

Harry raked a hand through his hair. "It's hard for a mother to admit that her husband is abusing their child, because it means she has to see her husband as a terrible person, someone who would hurt his own son or daughter. For friends or relatives of abusers, it's often psychologically easier to explain away bad behavior than to recognize that someone you love is capable of committing atrocious acts."

"Did Dumbledore love the Dursley's? Is that what you are saying?"

"Dumbledore loved everyone. It was his best quality and also his worst, because it blinded him sometimes from understanding why evil things happened. I think he knew, on some level, that things weren't right at the Dursley's—but I don't think he could admit to himself that they hated me, because he really couldn't conceive of that kind of fear and loathing. He wanted to see the good in everyone."

Draco smiled a little half smile and looked over at his hand, which was still curled up in Harry's. "So you trust me?"

"What?"

"Earlier, you said you trusted me."

"Yeah, yeah I guess I do." Harry smiled sheepishly, once again aware of how awkward his body was. His hand, touching Draco, seemed enormous and sweaty and he suddenly withdrew it from the table to wipe his palm surreptitiously against his trousers under the table.

"I have another question," Draco said, and Harry blanched slightly. He didn't think he would be capable of answering another question like the one about the Dursleys. It was too hard to talk about those things from the past, and Harry didn't often try. But he knew that if Draco asked he would feel compelled to answer, and answer truthfully. He braced himself for whatever would come next.

"What is that hideous black box in your living room?"

Harry blinked, then laughed. "You mean my photo booth?"

"I mean that enormous monstrosity in the corner that I nearly trip over every time I come here." Harry grinned broadly at Draco's derisive tone. He'd never admit it out loud, but he sort of enjoyed Draco's occasional outbursts of disdain. It was reassuring—as though even though they had both changed a great deal, none of the essentials had changed. Draco was still Draco. Harry stood and grabbed Draco's wrist, pulling him up.

"Well, then, I guess it is about time that I showed you what it is."

"If this is a ploy to get out of your afternoon lesson, it won't work."

Harry rolled his eyes. "First of all, you asked, so don't complain. Second of all, it'll only take a minute or two and then we'll get back to making each other invisible, or whatever."

They stopped in front of the photo booth and Draco eyed it warily.

"This is my photo booth. It was a birthday present from the Weasley's. It's a Muggle device. You step behind the curtain and sit on the little stool and there are four flashes of light. Then, you wait a few minutes and check here," Harry pointed to the slot on the outside of the box, "and presto—instant photos."

"The Weasley's gave this to you?"

"Yeah, it's brilliant." Harry pulled the curtain back and ducked inside, dragging Draco behind him by the wrist, which he had not yet let go of. They crammed together awkwardly on the stool and Harry had to reach over Draco to draw the curtain closed behind them. He pressed the button to start the count down for the camera.

"Harry, what do I do?" Draco's voice sounded slightly panicked, and Harry felt himself grin.

"Just look forward and wait for the flash. And smile!" But Draco did not look forward. Instead, his face stayed turned towards Harry when the first flash went off. Harry could feel Draco's eyes trained on his face, and he turned to face Draco. Their eyes met as the second flash erupted in the booth, filling the small space with bright light. Not knowing what he was about, Harry lifted his hand towards Draco's face, as though to pull him forward, but he stopped himself halfway just at the moment of the third flash. He dropped his hand abruptly and swallowed.

"Draco we have to look forward." Draco's head snapped to the camera, and Harry followed, trying to smile but unsure what the look on his face would be when the picture came out. It felt like ages before the final flash, and when it was over the booth felt especially dark. Harry was suddenly aware how tangled their bodies were—Harry's right ankle was looped between Draco's feet, and their arms were pressed against one another. Harry felt his face heat up.

"We have to leave the booth to retrieve the photos," Draco said, ending the silence. There was something in his voice, but Harry couldn't quite catch it. It was matter-of-fact, but there was a resignation as well.

Neither of them said anything as they pulled the curtain aside and stepped out of the booth. The silence continued as they waited for the photos to appear. After what seemed like ages, there was a loud click, and then a swooshing sound, and the strip of photographs fell into the slot. Draco retrieved it, holding the black and white strip in his long, elegant fingers. He stared at it for a few moments.

"They move," Draco observed.

"Yeah, the Weasleys modified the booth so it would take wizard photos," Harry said, suddenly worried about the legal ramifications of the booth. Would Arthur get in trouble with Misuse of Muggle Artifacts? Should Harry have been more careful about whom he showed the booth to? What was Draco thinking?

Draco set the strip down on the coffee table and turned to Harry. "I think it is time to resume our lessons," he said quietly, and Harry nodded, moving away towards the kitchen and their potions station. He forced himself not to look at the photo. He didn't know why, but he felt like if he looked at it now it would ruin everything—all of their trust, all of their candor. He heard Draco's footsteps behind him, but he didn't turn. Why was it that every time he saw Draco he felt like everything was shifting?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The afternoon lesson felt like it stretched on forever, and Harry kept having to remind himself to relax, again and again. As a result, when he closed the door after Draco at five o'clock, he felt exhausted, as though he hadn't slept in days. He slumped towards the living room and practically threw himself onto the sofa, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Why did things with Draco suddenly feel so difficult?

He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the photo strip, which was still laying on the coffee table in front of him, face down, just as Draco had left it after lunch. Warily, he stretched a hand out to grab it, but before he could, the fireplace roared to life with green flames. After a moment, Ginny Weasley stumbled—or rather fell—out of the flames onto his living room rug.

"Ginny! What on earth are you doing here?"

"Shoot the boot," she mumbled into the carpet.

"What?"

"Shoot the boot. They made me shoot the boot. Now I can't go home and I have to tell her Harry but the Statute of Secrecy is very vague about homosexuals and what if she freaks out? I can't go home anymore. I don't want to go home anymore." All of this tumbled out in a mumbled slur. Harry eyed her suspiciously.

"Ginny, are you drunk?"

"Maybe." Harry sighed. This was not the first time Ginny had stumbled in through his floo, drunk, ranting about Eleanor, and begging him not to send her home to the Burrow, but it certainly hadn't happened in months.

"Alright then. Let's get you up. You can sleep in the guest room tonight and we'll talk about it in the morning." He looped his hands under Ginny's arms and pulled her up. It was only five in the afternoon, but she seemed ready to collapse. Harry just hoped she'd stay out for the night, and not wake up later in the evening, ready for a round two.

Getting Ginny up the stairs was shockingly easy—she didn't resist, and though she was just dead weight in his arms, she was surprisingly docile. She mumbled incoherently about her mother and letting the family down, something about Quidditch, and several comments about Eleanor that made Harry blush furiously and hope that Ginny wouldn't remember any of this in the morning.

He half-pulled, half-wrestled her into the guest bed and under the covers. He'd got off her shoes, but didn't bother with the rest of her clothing—she'd just have to sleep in her Quidditch gear, which was what she had shown up in, minus the outer layer of robes and padding. She looked very small in the bed—just a tangle of slender limbs and bright red hair.

"Alright, Ginny. Sleep it off. I'll come find you in the morning."

"Night, Harry," she slurred. "Thanks for being… for being you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning Harry woke to find Ginny already awake, chipper, and cleaning his kitchen.

"It's obscene, you know, for you to be this chipper so early in the morning given how drunk you were yesterday at five in the bloody afternoon."

Ginny grinned, handing him a cup of coffee with milk but no sugar. "I might have drunk the last of your Pepper-up Potion this morning at 4 am when I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. It's not exactly meant for hangovers, but it seems to have done the trick." She turned to grab two slices of toast that had just jumped from the toaster. "D'you want butter or jam?"

"Both."

Ginny nodded and began to spread butter over the toast, biting her bottom lip.

"Harry…"

"Yeah?"

"I know that Wednesdays are usually your day at the library, where you pretend to do Muggle Studies or whatever but really you're just reading mysteries."

"Yeah, what of it."

"I wondered if I could stay for the day? I don't want to go back to the Burrow—I know I only have three weeks left there before training starts and I promised Mum, but it's driving me batty and I need some space. Also I haven't seen you in ages, not since your birthday and…" she trailed off, looking nervous.

"Ginny, of course you can stay. You can stay the day, you can stay the week. You can stay as long as you like."

"Really?"

"On two conditions."

"What conditions?"

"Number one is that you go on a run with me."

"Done. Number two?"

"You have to tell me what it means to shoot the boot. I know it's probably something semi-pornographic but it's been bugging me all night."

Ginny laughed, a bright, genuine peal of laughter that echoed around the kitchen. She slid over the buttered-and-jammed toast to Harry and smiled broadly.

"It's a drinking game. Yesterday the old team members took all the new players out for a pub crawl. It was supposed to be just a few drinks and a few laughs, but then we started talking about post-game rituals. Shoot the boot is one of them—it's where the players have to drink a pint out of their shoe."

"Ginny, that's disgusting. Please tell me you didn't."

Ginny ducked her head. "I might have done."

"Just the one?"

"I might have drunk a pint from every new member's shoe."

"I'm surprised that Pepper-up was remotely effective. I would have thought you'd need a round of antibiotics just to get out of bed."

"What are antibiotics?"

"It's a Muggle thing… nevermind."

They finished their breakfast and then changed for the run. Since leaving Hogwarts, Harry had found that nothing made him happier than morning runs—he'd forget the world, forget that magic existed, forget his entire past and just exist as a body moving in space. It was brilliant. He'd tried running with Ron a few times, but he found Ron talked too much. Ginny, on the other hand, was perfectly content to run in companionable silence.

Sometimes, now that they were just friends, Harry found himself watching Ginny, trying to get back to the place where he had felt something more for her, but he could never quite reclaim it. He couldn't explain it, especially since Ginny had only continued to blossom in the past few years—she was funny and smart, and a compassionate friend. Like Hermione, she had a knack for understanding the underlying emotions of a situation, talking to her often helped Harry articulate thoughts he didn't know he'd been struggling with. Unlike Hermione, though, Ginny could handle moral ambiguity; Harry never worried about Ginny judging him for having ungenerous impulses. Like Ron, she was able to step back from situations and provide perspective; she didn't get overwhelmed and could crack a joke even at the worst of times. But she had none of Ron's quick temper—at least most of the time.

The more Harry thought about it, the more Harry became convinced that Ginny's arrival was in fact fortuitous. Something was happening with him and with Draco, and Ginny would be the person to help him puzzle out exactly what it was. Although, he couldn't quite wrap his head around what exactly he would say—Draco was his tutor. Nothing really had happened. So Harry felt awkward around him. Wasn't that to be expected after everything that had passed between them? But then there was lunch—how could Harry feel awkward when he routinely confessed to so much that was frankly personal? It didn't quite add up.

He was still wondering how to broach the subject later in the day when Ginny interrupted him in the kitchen.

"Oi, Harry! What's this then?"

Harry spun on his heels to find Ginny standing in the door, holding out the photo booth pictures from the day before.

"Er… it's some pictures of me and Draco…"

"Well I can see that. What the hell is going on with you two?"

"Nothing is going on!"

"That's not what this looks like!"

Harry shifted uneasily. He hadn't yet looked at the photo, and he wasn't quite sure what the camera would have captured. Until this moment, he'd been convincing himself that the tension he felt in the booth had been all in his own head, and that the photos would look like any other photos—just two blokes. Ginny shoved the photo strip into his hand and he looked down.

In the first frame, Harry was looking straight at the camera, smiling goofily, but Draco was turned in profile, his eyes searching Harry's face with an uncertain expression. In the second frame, Harry was turning to meet Draco's gaze; when Harry's eyes met Draco's in the photo, there was a brief moment of intensity before the frame began again. In the third frame, their eyes were still locked, and Harry's arm rose from outside the frame to hover between them. Harry gulped—it looked an awful lot like Harry was just seconds away from pulling Draco in for a kiss. In the fourth frame, Harry's arm had disappeared from between them and Draco had finally looked at the camera. His face was unreadable—a complete blank. It was impossible to tell what Draco might be thinking.

"It looks like…" Harry began.

"It looks like you are about three seconds from kissing him is what it looks like."

"Yeah, I guess it does."

"Harry, come on. You can tell me." Ginny's tone had changed from incredulous to gentle, and Harry looked up to find her looking at him with concern.

"Honestly, Ginny, I don't know." Harry dragged in a ragged sigh. "He's tutoring me. He comes twice a week. At first it was kind of a mess but now… it's nice. We talk. We talk about stuff I thought I couldn't talk about. He's different. I don't know what it all means."

"Are you attracted to him?"

"I don't know! I don't know if I know what it feels like to be attracted to someone."

"What do you think about when you are near him?"

"I like looking at him. I guess I think about his hands."

"His hands?"

"Ginny! This is hard!"

"Harry, I know. I'm not trying to be a jerk, I'm just trying to understand."

"How do I know if I'm attracted to him or not?"

"Well, you could try to kiss him."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that'll be brilliant. And if he rejects me then I'll have to spend the next nine months seeing him twice a week. Alone. No. I can't do anything like that. Not until I know what I'm really feeling. And until I know what he's feeling."

"He is a bit hard to read," Ginny bit her lip and looked down and the fourth photo, meeting Draco's unblinking gaze.

"Wait," Harry said, perking up. "I think I've got an idea."

"Should I be scared?"

"It's brilliant. Listen—Draco is coming to do Transfiguration tomorrow and you'll still be here—you are still going to be here?"

"Well, it's not like I fancy going back to the Burrow."

"Brilliant. You'll be here, and you can watch!"

"Watch your Transfiguration lesson."

"I guess so. But mostly I meant you could watch me with Draco. You can tell me if it seems like I'm attracted to him and if it seems like he's attracted to me."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You know you could just ask him—see how he feels."

"I'm not ready."

"Fine, I will help you with your little plan. But, in the spirit of being fair, I would like to impose two conditions."

"And they are?"

"Condition one: I'm not staying for lunch. Hermione told me that you guys have your little heart to heart at lunch and I don't want to intrude, it seems way too personal."

Harry thought for a moment. He wanted Ginny to see them at lunch, because that was when Draco was the most unguarded. But, he knew he'd act differently if she were there, and it did feel like a violation to have a third person during their lunch.

"Ok, condition one accepted. What's condition two?"

"You have to help me figure out what on earth I'm going to do about Eleanor."

"Ginny, I think you are making a bigger deal of this than it needs to be. Eleanor loves you—that's not going to change. Just tell her"

"Harry, you don't understand. The Statute of Secrecy…"

"Has got to make allowances for telling Muggle loved ones about magic because otherwise half the population of Hogwarts wouldn't exist. Seamus Finnigan would still be a gleam in his mother's eye!"

"The Statute of Secrecy only allows you to tell a Muggle lover that you are magical if you are engaged!" Ginny shouted.

"Oh."

"Yeah, exactly. I mean, I love Eleanor, but I'm only 18. I can't get engaged, let alone married."

"Have you talked to your parents about it?"

Ginny sighed and slumped against the counter. "I did. It just caused a big fight."

"Hang on, that doesn't make sense. Your parents have met Eleanor, and they love her. Why would they pick a fight with you about it?"

"They didn't pick a fight because they don't like Eleanor. They think we _should _get married. I said I wasn't ready. Mum just couldn't accept that."

"But you're only 18. Why would they want to force you into a marriage?"

"I know it's not as common anymore for Muggles to marry early, but it's still very traditional for wizards to get married at 17 or 18—as soon as they come of age. My parents did."

"And when you said you didn't want to get married yet…"

"Mum kind of took it as a judgment on her own choice to marry early. You know how she is—she's proud of the choices she's made, but I think she does sometimes feel a little old-fashioned for getting married so young and having six kids and staying home."

"You're Mum is one of the most powerful witches I know—she killed Belatrix Lestrange! She doesn't have to have a dodgy job at the Ministry to earn our respect."

"I know that! And she knows that. But sometimes I say something and… well, she's just a bit defensive."

"God, what must she think of Hermione?" Harry wondered and was rewarded by a priceless look from Ginny.

"Hermione is Hermione. But I would be lying if I said she hadn't ruffled some feathers on her own. She told Mum she was waiting until she turned 25 to get married to Ron, and that she wouldn't consider having a baby until she was at least 30—_if at all_."

"Yikes."

"Yes. It didn't exactly help my case. Dad was a bit better. He told me to take my time and that it would all work out."

"A bit vague, but a nice sentiment." Harry eyed Ginny. "Why don't you just wait? I mean, maybe if you aren't ready to get married you should wait a bit until you are to let her know the rest."

"And build our entire relationship on lies? I don't think so. Also, I don't think I could if I wanted to. There are just too many questions. Ginny, why don't you have a telephone? Ginny, why aren't you going to uni? Ginny, why haven't you heard of ballfoot, or microwaves, or Oprah Winfrey?"

"Football," Harry corrected, laughing.

"You see what I mean, though? I'm pretty sure she thinks my family are in some kind of weird cult. When she came over to the Burrow the first time she asked if we were Mennonites. I don't even know what that is!"

"Ok, well, what would happen if you broke the Statute of Secrecy but made her keep it a secret?"

"I asked Hermione the same question."

"And?"

"Actually, the law is pretty lenient on infractions between lovers."

"That's great!"

"Sort of." Ginny shifted uncomfortably. "If you get caught and the couple is still together, they force you to get married. If you get caught and you've broken up—I mean, if the Muggle partner takes it badly—they obliviate the Muggle partner."

"How much?"

"All of it. Not just the knowledge of the wizarding world, but the whole relationship. All of your memories of that person. For the Muggle, it's as though you have never met."

Harry was reminded forcibly of Hermione obliviating her parents the summer before seventh year—erasing her whole existence from their minds. She'd got them back, finally, from Australia, but their relationship had been strained ever since. Hermione had said that sometimes she caught them looking at her as though they were just remembering who she was. Harry had seen a lot of scary things done with magic during the war, but he could never shake the feeling that obliviation was the scariest bit of magic possible—worse than Crucio, worse than Avada Kedavra.

"We're nothing without our memories," he said quietly.

"I know. And the worst part is that I couldn't… I couldn't get her consent before I told her. In order for her to understand what she was signing on for, she'd already have to know about magic and understand it."

"Do you think it's worth the risk?"

"Sometimes. But it's not just me I'd be risking. She has to think it's worth the risk too."

Harry didn't know what to say, so instead he stepped forward and enfolded Ginny in a fierce hug. He felt her arms wrap around him and she hugged back.

"You love her. She loves you," he mumbled into Ginny's hair. "You're both alive and maybe that's the best we get sometimes."

"Thanks for that, Harry," Ginny said, stepping back. Her voice was only half sarcastic, and Harry smiled.

"Ok, ok. I don't know what you expect. I've never claimed to be much with words."

The remainder of the day was spent reading and talking. They spent a solid hour in the photo booth, taking goofy photo after goofy photo, then cooked an elaborate—if partially inedible—dinner that destroyed Harry's kitchen. After dinner, Ginny attempted to teach Harry to transfigure his teaspoons into swiss army knives, with some moderate success. Spurred on by their minor triumph in the arena of kitchen wares, not too mention the three bottles of wine they had between the two of them consumed, they moved on to the teacups, which in short order became crowns. The throw blankets in the living room were shortly converted to ermine robes and for the final touch, an old umbrella and a broken curtain rod became scepters. This of course led to an extended game where each tried to one-up the other by thinking up more and more ludicrous magical decrees.

"I decree that Bertie's Every Flavor Beans shall be the only food eaten on Saturdays in March," Ginny exclaimed.

"I decree that Apparition is banned on any months ending in 'Y'" Harry put in. They'd been at it for over an hour, and he was beginning to run out of steam. Ginny had already declared herself Queen of Quidditch and Majesty of the Red-Headed Younger Sisters. Harry had titled himself Emperor of Orphans and King of Disarming Spells. They had made national holidays for both of their birthdays, repealed several laws restricting the use of magic for personal gain, and had now moved on to establishing a complicated constitution involving hard to remember rules about only supremely unimportant things.

"I decree that eyeliner may only be worn by witches who have obtained a special permit from the Department of Muggle Relations."

"Oh that's a good one. I decree…" Harry thought about it for a moment, "I decree that NEWTS be replaced by LARKS!"

"Larks?"

"Yeah, it's an acronym: Lovely And Relaxing Karaoke Sessions."

"You would do karaoke?" Ginny looked at Harry suspiciously from her perch at one end of the sofa. They were both sat at opposite ends, enveloped in their enormous robes. Ginny's crown was askew on her head and her hair had frizzed and tangled a bit around it, making her look a bit mad.

"If it was lovely and relaxing karaoke? Yeah. And if it got me out of NEWTS—for sure."

"Yeah, but if you didn't have NEWTS, you wouldn't have Draco."

"True."

"You'd have to woo him with songs."

Harry grimaced. "Yeah, that would definitely go badly. Better stick with Potions."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that."

"Yeah, me neither." Harry yawned broadly and cast a quick Tempus. "When did it get to be so late—s'almost 1 a.m."

Ginny caught Harry's yawn and then gave him a rueful smile. "You're a bad influence."

"Me! I'm the one with school tomorrow. Should've been to bed ages ago."

"Harry, I don't think I can move to go to bed. Too full. Too tired. Too lazy."

Harry shrugged. "Me neither."

Ginny shifted as though to rise, but then sank back with a sigh.

"I decree that we sleep on the sofa tonight."

"Seconded."

"Motion passes. Get the lights."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The doorbell rang three times before Harry's sleep-fogged brain could work out what the noise even was. He raised his head groggily from the cushion and surveyed the room. The spells he and Ginny had cast the night before had worn off and as a result he could feel a teacup digging into his cheek and a curtain rod jabbing his ribcage. The once-voluminous robes were now again throw blankets, hapzardly tangled underneath him. Ginny was… Ginny was no longer across from him on the sofa, and with a sudden lurch he realized that must be the reason the bell had ceased ringing.

He sat bolt upright on the sofa, just in time to hear the door swinging open.

"Hullo, Draco. Sorry for the wait, we've only just woken—fancy some breakfast?" he heard Ginny brightly greet Draco at the door. Her words were greeted by a momentary silence, and then he heard the sound of feet in the corridor. Draco appeared in the doorway of the living room, his face impassive. _Return of the mask_, Harry thought drily.

"Harry, would you mind terribly having a word with me in the kitchen?" Draco asked, his voice measured and calm. Ginny's face appeared behind him in the hallway, looking decidedly put out. Harry was about to speak, but before he could, Draco swept past Ginny and without another word disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Harry sighed.

"I'd better go after him, hadn't I?"

Ginny leaned on the doorframe. "Yes, I think you better had."

"What is even going on at this moment?"

She gestured towards the kitchen. "Better find out."

When Harry got to the kitchen, he found Draco sitting at the kitchen table with his hands folded in front of him. He still looked unreadable, but if Harry had had to guess at what Draco might be feeling he probably would have guessed anger—there was a tension, palpable in the air. Harry sucked in a breath and sat in the chair opposite Draco.

"Harry, I think that you and I should have a discussion about how serious you really are about your studies," Draco began. Harry's eyes widened.

"What," was all he could manage to say.

"What you do in your spare time, when I am not here, is of course your business. However, when I arrive here for tutoring I expect you to be prepared to begin your lessons immediately."

"I am ready!" Harry protested.

"You are half asleep. You are wearing clothes that you slept in. You haven't showered or eaten breakfast and you have the impression of a teacup rim on your left cheek." Draco paused, his eyes appraising Harry in a way that made Harry shift in his seat. "You have a guest."

"It's just Ginny. She's not going to interrupt, she's just staying for a few days."

Draco's eyebrows raised slightly. "A few days? Am I to expect to see you hungover and distracted every time I come here to tutor you?"

"I am not hungover! And I'm not distracted!" Harry became aware that he was shouting a bit, his voice echoed around the room and he blushed, but couldn't stop himself from adding, "you're not my mother, Malfoy. My friends are always welcome in my house and I don't need your permission."

"If you have quite finished throwing a tantrum, I would like to suggest that you retire upstairs to clean and dress yourself—"

"Stop telling me what to do!" Harry shouted. It was killing him that Draco had managed to deliver each little jab in that cool, collected voice. Harry hadn't felt this angry since… well, since he and Draco had used to fight at Hogwarts. Except back then Draco had been equally hot-headed. Harry wanted to shake him until Draco admitted that he was just as angry.

He heard a soft cough behind him and turned to find Ginny standing in the doorway. She had a cheery expression plastered on her face that Harry suspected must be taking some effort to maintain.

"Harry, Draco—sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to let you know that I have some errands to run this morning and I'm supposed to get lunch with Hermione and then I thought I'd head to Brixton to get some practice in at the Quidditch pitch on Burnaby road—I'm dreading the start of training, I'm so out of shape. Anyway, I'll probably be gone until about six o'clock. You don't need anything from the store that I could pick up on the way home, do you?"

Harry shot her a grateful look. As much as he did not want Draco to win, he knew he'd they'd never get past arguing with Ginny in the house.

"We're out of biscuits and tea, but that's all, I think."

"Fantastic. Have a good lesson." She smiled brightly at Draco. "And Draco, it's absolutely wonderful to see you again."

Ginny turned on her heels and was off down the hall. Harry didn't turn back to Draco until he heard the door slam shut behind her. He dragged in a big breath, determined not to resume the fight.

"Draco, I'm sorry that I woke up late and I'm sorry that I am running behind this morning. I know your time is valuable and it won't happen again." He paused. "No matter how long Ginny ends up staying."

"Fine. Now, please, do take a shower, Potter. You smell," Draco said, but his tone was gentle.

"I will if you stop nagging." Harry stood to leave, feeling confused. Draco still had that impassive face, completely unreadable, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if his conversation with Ginny the night before had been premature. Clearly whatever he thought might have been going on must have been all in his head. Just as he turned he heard Draco clear his throat.

"And Harry, one question."

"What?"

"What on earth happened to your kitchen?" Harry looked around the room for the first time and realized with a stab of embarrassment that he and Ginny never did any washing up the night before and the kitchen looked fairly rank. He groaned inwardly. Draco's look of distaste as he surveyed the room made him want to sink into the ground.

He showered as quickly as possible and barely dried himself off before throwing on the first clean clothes he found—a pair of worn jeans, a soft-but-shapeless tee shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt with the logo of a football team on the back. He padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, hoping to have a few minutes to tidy before he began his lesson with Draco, but stopped short in the doorway. Draco was no longer in the kitchen, and the kitchen was now sparkling clean. It not only looked as though Ginny Weasley and her dodgy domestic magic had never crossed it, but it looked neater than it ever had in Harry's memory. He opened one of the cabinets—the tall glasses had been sorted to the top shelf and the tumblers to the bottom shelf. Bowls were neatly stacked next to plates, and everything appeared to have been color-coded.

Dismayed, Harry walked to the living room. Draco was seated on the sofa, his briefcase open on the coffee table before him, and he was calmly sorting through a sheaf of parchment—which, Harry realized with an odd pang of jealously, must be papers from his other students.

"You cleaned and organized my kitchen," Harry said after a moment, unsure how to start. If Draco heard him he gave no indication, but merely held out a leaf of parchment in Harry's general direction.

"Today we will be brewing a Cheering Tonic. It's a relatively simple potion at its most basic, but the variety we will be attempting is used to treat patients with nervous disorders resulting from magical traumas," Draco began speaking in his most teacherly voice, a tone Harry had come to recognize as his no-nonsense voice. Confused, unsure if he was still angry, if Draco was still angry, or if the altercation in the kitchen about Ginny had even happened, Harry lowered himself onto the sofa beside Draco and took the parchment from Draco's extended hand. It was a basic recipe for Cheering Tonic, with a simple set of instructions.

"Given this base formula, what would you recommend that we add to enhance the tonic's ability to counteract Dark magic?" Draco drawled.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Harry," Draco said, his voice dripping with disapproval, "if you still aren't ready to start the lesson—"

"No! I'm ready I just…" Harry stuttered. "Ok, to counteract Dark magic? Unicorn blood?"

"Yes, that would have quite an effect, but what if we wanted something a bit more… pedestrian. And less expensive."

Harry blushed. Of course unicorn blood would be overkill. But something to amplify positive emotions, something that soothed as well as cheered…

"Milk?"

"Milk?" Draco repeated, as though egging Harry on for more.

"Yes, well, milk," Harry stammered. He couldn't ever remember feeling this nervous around Draco—even on their first day together. But for some reason today he felt like he was three steps behind. "I mean, there are several magical creatures who produce milk that retains their magical properties. And, too, mother's milk has nutritive powers—it's given with love, which can be a powerful form of magic itself." Harry felt himself grow warmer with every word—his face felt like it was on fire he was blushing so much.

"Very good. We will in fact be using selkie milk in our potion today. Selkies are extremely proud, and extremely protective of their young. Their milk is considered to be one of the best restoratives. Combined in a potion for Cheering, it can promote mental healing and alleviate stress."

"Promote healing? Doesn't it actually… you know, heal you?"

"There is no potion that can heal the mind or the emotions, Harry. Potions can temporarily mask negative feelings, but they cannot take away the root causes of those feelings. However, in some cases, when a trauma is caused by magic, a potion like the one we will brew today can clear away some of the damage done by magic so that you can begin to heal the mental damage the old fashioned way." Draco sounded as though the speech were somewhat rehearsed—as though he were repeating something he had heard said to himself.

"What's the old fashioned way."

"By talking," Draco said, with a small smile.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It took the remainder of the morning to brew the potion, and they were late eating lunch. Harry hoped that the candid, earnest Draco he had come to know in the past few weeks would return at lunchtime, but instead they ate in relative silence. Draco never asked his question and Harry was too scared to break the silence by risking one of his own, though he was burning up with questions—why was Draco so upset about Ginny staying over? What had really happened between them in the photobooth? Why had Draco been so keen to talk about everything the last few weeks—did it have anything to do with the potion they had brewed today?

Magical trauma. Harry hadn't asked Draco to specify what he meant by magical trauma, mostly because Harry could guess; he'd been through a lot of magical trauma himself. He tried not to, but as soon as he let himself even think about trauma he began to see all the faces of the people he had lost during the war, like a slideshow in his mind: Tonks, Lupin, Fred, Dobby, even Snape.

And Cedric, he thought, guiltily. Cedric Diggory, Draco Malfoy's first love and the first of many people Harry had been unable to save. Cedric's death had been, in some ways, the most senseless of all the deaths Harry had witnessed—those who had died later had a least died knowing they were fighting for something—fighting for what they believed in. Cedric had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn't get to choose to fight.

Lunch ended and they moved to the afternoon lesson. Draco stayed calm and impassive, intoning the various benefits of different magical creature's milk and rating the difficulty of obtaining each one. Harry took notes, only half listening. He felt depressed—uncertain of how things stood with Draco, angry and frustrated at himself for indulging in thoughts about the war, and unspeakable sadness for everyone he had lost. It was hard, given all that, to concentrate on various magical secretions and how he might use them to conjure up passing NEWTS grades. Suddenly, his entire life seemed frivolous, inconsequential.

Draco left around five o'clock and Harry made himself go into the kitchen and start dinner. It was early, but he planned an elaborate meal—something to keep himself busy until Ginny got back.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: This chapter was difficult to write. I have some ideas about things moving forward, but I want to draw things out a bit more first. Maybe. Who knows. **

**Thanks to my first two reviewers-I found your feedback so helpful. I find Ron to be a difficult character to write. I also have a harder time writing group scenes than just dialogues between Harry and Draco. I think it probably shows. Alas! We all have limitations.**

**This chapter is partially inspired by my long held feeling that Draco Malfoy as an adult must look a fair bit like Patrick Wolf (when he's blond). I googled this and found that there are others on the internet who share this feeling. So, you can imagine that the song Draco is singing is Patrick Wolf's "Wolf Song." The poem that Harry quotes is Dean Young's "Poem Without Forgiveness."**

Draco left around five o'clock and Harry made himself go into the kitchen and start dinner. It was early, but he planned an elaborate meal—something to keep himself busy until Ginny got back.

It was nearly seven by the time she finally reappeared. He heard the door slam rather loudly and busied himself fussing about around the stove as she entered the kitchen from the hallway.

"I hope you're hungry. I've been cooking for almost two hours and—"

"Harry, we broke up."

Harry turned, distantly aware that the wooden spoon in his left hand was dripping sauce on the kitchen floor.

"You and Eleanor?"

"Yes," Ginny said, miserably. She crossed to the kitchen table and slumped into one of the chairs. "I spent most of the day at Ron and Hermione's and then I went by El's around three. When I got there she was already mad. I don't know what I did but she started yelling about how I hadn't called first and what was I doing in London in the middle of the day and I said I couldn't call because I didn't have a phone and that I was staying with you and I don't know… somehow everything I said seemed to make it worse. And then I think we broke up."

"You think?"

"I'm not sure. It seemed like we were breaking up, but neither of us actually said it." Ginny looked miserably up at Harry from her chair. "Can I have some tea?"

"Er, sure…" Harry set the kettle on last free eye of the stove and began rummaging in the cabinet for tea things.

"Do _you_ have a telephone, Harry?"

"No," Harry said carefully, "not currently."

"I don't understand. I don't know anyone with a telephone. Do you think I should try and get one?"

"It might not work at the Burrow—too much magic around."

"You're probably right."

"There might be a spell, though."

"A spell to make a telephone work at the Burrow?"

"No, a spell that would let you call Eleanor's telephone without having one of your own. It would be similar to the spell that let's wizards broadcast over radio waves without equipment, I imagine. Hermione explained the theory to me once when we were… uh, when we were camping," Harry finished lamely, not wanting to get into a discussion of just what he, Hermione, and Ron had all gotten up to during their hunt-the-horcruxes year. It was not a time of many pleasant memories.

"Of course! Hermione! I should have thought to ask her. Not only is she Muggle-born, so she'll know all about this telephone business, but of course she'll know a spell to fix it!"

"Yeah, what would we do without Hermione, eh?" The kettle began to whistle and Harry pulled it off and poured the water for the tea. He sat at the opposite side of the table and handed Ginny her cup.

"Ginny, I do feel like it's worth asking if you really think the telephone is the whole problem."

"No, it isn't," Ginny said. "I know it's because, from her perspective, my life seems entirely erratic and incomprehensible. I mean she's right: normal people don't show up at odd hours of the day with no explanation. Normal people have jobs. And telephones."

"First of all, you are normal people. Being magic doesn't make you abnormal. Second of all, I think it sounds less and less like you broke up and more and more like you had a little fight and you should talk to her tomorrow and clear this all up, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah. You're probably right."

"I know I'm right. And you are a major drama queen."

Ginny jabbed Harry in the arm. "Watch it, mister. You're supposed to be supportive in my hour of need."

"I am being supportive. I'm holding up Nature's mirror to your face."

"I don't even know where to begin with that." She took a sip of her tea and made a face. "Harry, this tea is awful. I hope your potions brewing is better than your tea brewing."

Harry looked down at their cups and then at the box sitting on the counter.

"Ugh, that's because it's not tea—I've given you a brew of pixie tendrils from my potions kit. Don't worry, it won't harm you. But you may have very vivid dreams tonight."

"Are you trying to poison me?" Ginny looked at him incredulously.

"No. I'm sorry. Draco rearranged my kitchen cabinets this morning and nothing is where I expect it to be. It really did take me two hours to make dinner—I kept reaching for oregano and coming out with gillyweed."

"He mixed your potions ingredients with your cooking spices?"

"Yes. I couldn't work it out at first, but I think it's all alphabetical. It's actually more organized, it's just… I'm not used to it yet."

"Is dinner going to be edible?"

"Yes, I promise. And it definitely will not induce hallucinations."

"Good, because I'm starving."

Harry made plates for the two of them and they settled in to eat, lapsing into a temporary friendly silence. The flat at Grimmauld Place really was too large for just one person, Harry thought. It had been nice having Ginny around the past couple of days, more so than he would have expected. It was especially nice to have someone to share meals with—that had to be the number one thing he missed about Hogwarts, the dinners in the Great Hall. Eating alone felt weird and depressing. It was much nicer having someone to cook for, and someone to eat with.

"Harry, you want to tell me why you are staring at me?" Ginny asked, breaking Harry's reverie.

"You're the only person in the room, there's no one else to stare at."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Harry. You have something on your mind—out with it."

"I was just thinking—do you want to make this permanent?"

"What this?"

"Staying here. I mean, I know you were planning on moving in with some of your teammates when training starts in a few weeks, but there's plenty of room here and I'd like to have you around. And you wouldn't have to pay rent, or anything. It'll be brilliant."

"Harry," Ginny began, and Harry's heart sank. He could tell she was going to say no by the way she said his name. "I think it's a great idea for you to get a flatmate for this place. I hate thinking of you being here alone all the time. But I don't think it should be me."

"Is it weird because we used to date?"

Ginny laughed. "No Harry, it's not that. It's just… it's good for us all to make new friends and try new things. The wizarding world is really small, but sometimes I think we all make it smaller by only ever hanging around the same people all the time. I'm really looking forward to moving out of the Burrow soon and into my new flat. Two of my flatmates are from Slytherin; they were in my year at Hogwarts and I think I said hello to them all of twice the whole time I was there. I want to start saying hello a lot more often now."

She didn't say 'now that the war is over,' but it hovered in the air, unspoken, between them. Harry nodded. He understood, he supposed, but the thought of her leaving made him sad.

"I feel sometimes like I have trouble hanging on to the friends I already have," Harry said. "I feel like you are all slipping away."

"Harry," Ginny sighed, "I'm right here. And you should talk to us more if you are so worried. Ron said you haven't been by his place in weeks, and Hermione said that if she wasn't tutoring you in Charms she'd never talk to you at all."

"I just thought they might be too busy. Ron's in Auror training and Hermione is always going on about schoolwork and reading and falling behind."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Ron would skip out of his own wedding if you asked him to skive off, and Hermione always only talks about schoolwork and reading and falling apart. You should ask them over."

"I should."

"You should. Tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?"

Ginny picked at her food, trying to look nonchalant. "I might have heard they were both free and I might have invited them both over. And Neville and Luna as well."

"You invited four people over to my flat without asking me?" Harry grinned, "Ginny, that's brilliant. This is exactly what I need. See my friends, stop moping."

"So you're not mad?"

"No. Though, in the future I guess you could ask first."

Ginny looked relieved. She smiled, and then Harry saw a flash in her eyes and the smile turned devious.

"What is it?" Harry asked cautiously.

"What happened with Draco after I left? You haven't said yet and I want to know."

Harry dropped his fork and sat back in his chair, sighing.

"Nothing happened. I mean, you saw what he was like. Obviously, whatever you and I thought might have been going on isn't. It's all in my head, as usual."

"So you just fought all day?"

"No, after you left we both calmed down. I took a shower—that's when he organized the kitchen—and then we did a lesson and then he left."

"You didn't share anymore deep, dark secrets?"

"No, I didn't. We didn't share anything. We did the lesson and he left."

Ginny sat back and rubbed her chin.

"Well, I still think he likes you. He was awfully jealous that I was staying here for someone who is indifferent."

"I thought about that too, but I don't think that's it." Ginny made a noise of disagreement. "Ginny, honestly, I think he's not interested in me. I mean, in that picture—it's pretty much just me doing all the weird stuff. Trying to touch his face or whatever."

Ginny shook her head.

"I don't think that's true, Harry, but if that's how you feel… you know Draco better than I do."

"I don't think anyone knows Draco. He's an enigma."

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That. Treat him as though he's some impenetrable fortress. Like him, don't like him. Whatever you want. But he's not an enigma. He's a person." She paused, then continued, "a person you should really think about just asking how he feels."

"You can't just ask someone something like that!"

"Argh! You are so infuriating! Yes! You can!" Ginny punctuated each word by slamming her hand down on the table, making Harry jump.

"Ok, fine. I'll tell Draco how I feel about him the day that you tell Eleanor that you are a witch." To Harry's surprise, Ginny's face lit up in a smile at this.

"Fine. It's a deal." She stuck her hand across the table and Harry reached to meet her halfway. They shook on it.

Well, Harry thought. This will be interesting.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The party Ginny had set in motion was supposed to begin at seven o'clock the next day, but neither Harry nor Ginny was particularly surprised that Hermione arrived thirty minutes early with a loudly complaining Ron in tow. Of all his friends, Hermione took Harry's paranoia about late arrivals the most seriously, leading Ron to joke that if Harry wasn't careful Hermione would start arriving the night before and camping out, like Muggles in line for a film premiere. Ginny was exceptionally pleased by Hermione's early arrival, and as soon as she stepped from the fireplace Ginny grabbed her hand and hauled her into the kitchen to pick her brain about telephone spells.

"Ginny, haven't you ever heard of a pay phone…" Harry heard as they disappeared down the hall.

Harry turned to Ron smiling, but his smile turned cautious when he saw Ron's face. Ron was grinning ear-to-ear, looking positively fiendish.

"So, Harry. Out with it. Where's this picture then?"

"What picture?"

"From the photo booth." Ron jabbed Harry in the arm in a conspiratorial way. "The one Ginny told me about. With you and Draco."

"Ginny told you…?"

"She said I'd have to see it myself."

"What exactly did Ginny tell you?"

"Let's see: there's a picture of you and Draco where you clearly are trying to snog him. And that you're completely in love with him and you two spend all day talking about your feelings." Ron grinned triumphantly. "You alright mate?"

"Yes. I'm just mentally thinking about every nice thing I've ever said about Ginny Weasley and taking it back."

"It's nothing I couldn't work out on my own, really. After our conversation and all the things you've said to Hermione recently… it did seem like you were a bit interested in him."

"Why does everyone think that? Why is everyone sure when I can't even work out my own feelings on the subject?"

Ron's look of pity made Harry want to punch a wall. There were a lot of people who could, by rights, give Harry such a look for being oblivious to his own emotions, but Ron Weasley had no right in that department.

"Harry, you've always been a bit obsessed with Malfoy, haven't you. It used to make me jealous, when we were kids, because he could always get a rise out of you."

Harry slumped on the couch, coloring. It was true, especially of sixth year, that Harry had sometimes gone a bit overboard in his scrutiny of Draco. But the feelings he had now—this strange awareness of Draco's body, the pull to look, not at him, but into him—this all seemed new. It made him indignant to think that his friends would write it off as just a crush. It felt like something else—something more… imperative.

"Ron, you were furious with me, in sixth year, when I was obsessed with Malfoy. And you were furious with me after the war when I gave him his wand back and spoke on his behalf in the war trials. Why are you suddenly on board with Malfoy?"

"It isn't sudden for me. You may be seeing Malfoy again for the first time since the war, but I spent practically every day with him last year. He was Hermione's potions partner. I had to work it out."

Harry looked at his friend incredulously. His own experiences with Ron and Malfoy in potions classes made him extremely skeptical that the mere sharing of lessons could do anything to alter Ron's dislike of Draco.

"Ok, alright," Ron said, eyeing Harry, "I also might have punched him in the face. In front of the whole class. After setting his robes on fire."

"You what!"

Ron grinned sheepishly.

"Second week of term. He was just sitting there all quiet, not speaking to anyone and it was getting on my nerves. After all those years mouthing off and bragging before every lesson, I got kind of… irrationally crazed at him not talking. So I lit his robes on fire… you know, just to see what he'd do."

"Ron! That's insane."

"A bit, yeah. Hermione was furious. Wouldn't talk to me for two weeks. Anyway, someone put out the flames and then Malfoy came over and apologized to me. He apologized—to me! He said he knew I had a lot to be angry about and that he was sorry he couldn't do anything to fix it."

"And that's why you punched him in the face?"

"Did I mention the part about being irrationally crazed?"

"So you punched him in the face and that fixed everything."

"Not even close. We both got detention from Professor Teaneck, the new potions master. We were supposed to clean the potion's cupboards and organize all the ingredients. I was still seething mad. As soon as Teaneck left the room, Draco grabbed a vial of Veritaserum from the shelf, drank it off, and then invited me to ask him any question I wanted—about his loyalties, about the war, about why he did what he did. Said he wanted us to have a clean slate."

"Wow, that's…"

"Mental, yeah. He looked pretty desperate."

"Did you ask him anything?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And?"

"I don't know what to tell you, mate. He shared some pretty dark stuff. It was all pretty personal." Ron looked into Harry's eyes from across the room, a look of sincerity and sympathy that Harry recognized as asking for Harry not to push for much more information about the incident.

"Anyway, it's not like we became best friends after that or anything, but I couldn't be mad anymore. Not at him."

Harry nodded, his thoughts a bit of a tangle. He felt weirdly jealous that Draco had shared this intense experience with Ron—he'd come to think of his time with Draco as special, that Draco shared things with him that he couldn't or wouldn't share with anyone else. Maybe Draco just had a thing for confessing, though. Or maybe it was all just part of his larger campaign of rehabilitation in the eyes of the world—coming clean. Maybe Harry was just fooling himself that any of his interactions with Draco were significant.

Ginny and Hermione rejoined them in the living room a few moments later, breaking his internal monologue. Ginny looked happy, which Harry supposed must mean Hermione had solved at least one of her problems with Eleanor.

"Did Hermione know a spell?" Harry asked as they both sat down on the sofa.

"Honestly, Harry, you always make things so complicated. You're idea about… possessing a telephone or whatever was interesting, but far too complex."

"What did you suggest instead?"

"That she use a pay phone like a normal person."

"Oh, yes, that does sound pretty simple."

"What's a pay phone?" asked Ron.

"It's a public telephone that anyone can use—you just put some Muggle money in it and it lets you place calls."

"What if Eleanor tries to call you?"

Ginny's face fell.

"Oh, he's right Hermione, I hadn't thought of that. If I call her from the pay phone, she'll want to call me back, but I might not be there."

Hermione rolled her eyes, reached into her pocket and pulled out a Galleon.

"Here—it's one of the Galleons from sixth year. I carry it around as a memento, but you can have it. Remind me later and I'll alter the charm on it so it changes whenever the pay phone rings—that way, you will see that Eleanor is trying to call you and you can Apparate to the phone box and call her back."

"Brilliant!"

Ginny's words were punctuated by the fire roaring green in the grate. Neville and Luna shortly followed, dusting themselves off and sending ashes swirling about the room. When he was done dusting himself off, Neville looked around the room, then down at his watch with a look of panic.

"I'm not late, am I? Harry, I'm sorry—I thought we were on time. My watch must be slow."

"It's alright, Neville, you're not late. We were just early," Hermione said, congenially. Harry jumped up to pull more chairs into the room, spelling the furniture to rearrange itself in a loose circle so that they could all see each other.

"Now that everyone is here—can I get anyone anything to drink? I've got tea, coffee, pumpkin juice, butterbeer, and I think there might still be a bottle of wine somewhere."

A chorus of voices greeted Harry's query and he had to have Luna come to the kitchen to help ferry drinks for everyone. On the way she told him about her internship at the Department of Mysteries. Apparently, she was mostly just dealing with old files and getting coffees, but she had hope that soon she'd be allowed to actually shadow one of the Unspeakables.

"I know it sounds dull, but I'm really enjoying it so far. There is some satisfaction in knowing that at the end of the day you've done your job and completed a task," Luna said as they reentered the living room.

"It doesn't sound dull at all. I bet you come across all kinds of interesting stuff in the files."

"I don't really have time to read them, usually, but sometimes just the names of the files are enough to inspire—"

"A series of Quibbler articles on conspiracy theories?" Ron chimed in, brightly.

"It's funny you should say that," Luna replied warmly, "as I've actually been considering a writing career after my internship is over."

"You don't think you'll try to continue on in the Department of Mysteries?" Hermione asked.

"I don't know yet. I like the work, but it goes against my nature for things to be unspeakable, doesn't it?"

"Do you think you would work in journalism like your father?" Ginny asked.

"I'm not sure. I've actually been considering going to university—to Muggle university, I mean. I've spoken to McGonagall about the problem of transcripts and she's promised to help me as far as that goes."

"A Muggle university?" Harry was intrigued, and also sort of impressed. He had also briefly thought about spending some time at a Muggle uni—getting away from magic for a bit and doing all those daft things Muggle's did in school, like major in theatre and streak across quads—but considering he hadn't studied maths, literature, science, or about a half a dozen other Muggle school subjects since he turned eleven, he thought the actual idea of attending classes was laughable.

"It's just a thought I've had—I know it's a bit weird." Luna looked uncharacteristically shy—she was not usually in the habit of reflecting on her own weird habits.

"Luna, you are weird," Ginny said, affectionately, "but that's why we love you."

"And there are all sorts of practical applications of your studies," Hermione put in—she had a very serious research face on. "You could teach Muggle Studies, for one. You'd be invaluable to the Muggle Liaison office, or other Muggle related departments at the Ministry. Or, you could be a consultant—I know the Ministry is currently considering revising some of the minor clauses in the Statute of Secrecy, and are also in the process of revisiting laws related to Misuse of Muggle Artifacts—it's actually fascinating, but it seems the rate of Muggle technological advancement is out pacing our ability to write laws governing its use—"

"'Mione, you're doing it again," Ron interrupted with a theatrical whisper. Hermione colored, then smiled.

"Sorry. I find wizarding laws about Muggle relations to be fascinating."

No one was surprised by this revelation, and Hermione spent some minutes trying to explain the joys to be derived from the intricacies of legal theory only to give up amidst the uncontrolled giggling of Ginny and Ron. Ginny told several stories from her recent pub night with the Harpies, all of which mortified Ron but also clearly made him jealous. She appeased him by promising him free tickets to all of her games.

After some little prompting from Harry and Hermione, Neville told a story from his job about a spider fern that had developed an appetite for Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. He was working at a plant nursery just outside London. The nursery employed an experimental farming model of minimal magic—they refrained from using spells that acted as pesticides, growth stimulants, water replenishers, or other aids to the plant's natural growth. Neville had never seemed happier in his life.

"At first I thought it was all a bit mad—a magical nursery that tries not to use magic. But I have to say that really listening to the plants, to what they need, is very rewarding. I think I've learned more in the few months I've been working there than I did the whole time at Hogwarts… Not to say anything against Professor Sprout!"

Everyone laughed. They knew Sprout had been Neville's favorite professor, but the distress on his face at having accidentally implied that Herbology had been less than perfect at Hogwarts was priceless.

"Neville, did you say you have a crop of valerian?" Harry asked, when laughter died down.

"Yeah, we do. It's very beautiful now it's blooming. Beautiful pink flowers. It'll be a shame to harvest it for the roots in a few weeks."

"Do you think you could set some aside for me?"

"What for? I know it's a minor ingredient in some rarer potions, but not likely you'll need it for NEWTS potion making. We mostly we grow it for old grannies who like to drink it as a tea. I didn't think you liked valerian root tea."

"I don't. It's… er, it's a present for a friend," Harry stammered out, aware that he was flushing rather strongly. Ron sat up straight in his chair, and Ginny fixed him with an absolutely merciless look.

"This wouldn't be a certain blond with a love of snake jewelry and a propensity for re-organizing your cupboards, would it?" Ginny asked.

"I don't know to whom you are referring," Harry replied meekly.

"Ron, I think you own me a fiver. If he's getting him gifts, he's all but admitted it," Ginny said.

"I will fork it over when _I _decide that it's said and done, sis."

"I can't believe you two would make a bet about Harry's feelings!" Hermione interjected.

"I can't believe you can't believe we would make a bet about Harry's feelings," Ginny replied with an impish grin at Hermione.

"Oh, honestly. I expect this sort of behavior from him" Hermione jabbed her finger towards Ron, "but I thought you were more mature."

"I'm working on being less mature these days, actually."

If Luna were baffled by this spirited exchange about a certain blond, it didn't show on her face, which looked placid and dreamy as always. Neville, on the other hand, looked positively bewildered.

"I don't understand. What does Harry need the root for?"

"Harry's got a crush, but he won't admit it is all," Ron explained.

"Anyone I know?" Neville asked. "A blond? Tell me it's not a Slytherin—isn't Daphne Greengrass a blonde?"

"You're partially right," Ginny said.

"Astoria Greengrass? Wait, I thought she was a brunette."

"This is stupid. Harry should be the one to tell his friends if he wants to—" Hermione began, but was cut off by Harry himself.

"It's ok, Hermione. It seems like I'm doomed to be outted no matter what I do."

"Outted!" Ginny said, sounding hurt. "I didn't think it was that big a deal."

"What's a big deal," asked Neville, sounding more and more confused.

"Harry fancies a bloke," Ron put in.

"Thanks for that, Ron," Harry said. "I'm sorry Neville, that you are getting all dragged into this, but Ginny and Ron and Hermione—"

"_I_ never said—"

"You didn't need to, Hermione," Harry sighed. "They all think that I fancy—"

"Draco Malfoy," Neville supplied, quietly. His eyes were trained on his own hands in his lap.

"Well, yeah. They think I fancy Draco. He's been tutoring me in Potions and Transfiguration. I guess it must be pretty obvious if you guessed it right off like that…" Harry trailed off as Neville raised his eyes to meet Harry's. There were tears in his eyes, Harry realized with a jolt.

"Harry…" Neville choked out, "why'd it have to be him—anyone but him."

"Neville," Harry said softly, "I know that Draco did some nasty things during the war. I know he was a Death Eater. But he was under so much pressure from his father, his family. And he's trying, really trying, to make it up now."

"Harry, this isn't about the stupid war," Neville spat, his tears turning quickly into anger and defiance, "although, I do think you're an idiot to believe his sob stories about his family."

"Neville…" Hermione said, her tone between warning and shock.

"No, don't, Hermione. You and Harry didn't grow up in the wizarding world and you never met Draco before Hogwarts, but he made it his life's mission to bully me since I can remember. And when we got to Hogwarts it was just the same."

Harry grew hot and uncomfortable, remembering all the times Draco had teased Neville, or hexed him, during their time at Hogwarts.

"Draco picked on all of us, Neville," Ginny said, "we know what he was like. But Harry's right—he really has changed. He's been different since the war. He was different last year in school—he never said a word to you."

"Look, I know you all think I'm being a coward or something, but Draco made me hate myself for so many years. I was miserable. I loathed my body—I thought I was a squib, or close to, for ages. There were times when I was…" Neville paused, looking away from the concerned eyes of his friends. "There were times when I thought about just ending it all…"

"Oh, Neville," Hermione whispered.

"Don't, ok. I know you have all been my friends, but there have been times where you've all just stood by while someone did or said something to me. Hogwarts was horrible for me—even most of the teachers treated me like I was worthless—except for Sprout, and Moody, who turned out to be just another Death Eater. The only time I was ever happy there was during the war—when I finally stood up for myself." The look of defiance was back on Neville's face—the same look he'd had when he'd cut Nagini in half, when he'd changed, irrevocably, the fate of the war.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, "I didn't plan any of this… it's all just sort of happening."

"Harry, do what you like," Neville said venomously, "but don't expect me to hang about with you while you're with him. I'm not going back to being the person that I was."

"I'm not with him," Harry said.

"I'm. Not. Going. Back." Each word was delivered like a hammer. Neville stood from his chair and without another word walked straight out of the room. They heard the front door slam a few seconds later and the reverberating crack of Disapparation a few moments after that.

The room filled with a chilly silence in Neville's wake. Harry couldn't stop thinking, and he suspected that the others were similarly occupied, about all the times they'd witnessed Neville being bullied—by Malfoy, by Crabbe and Goyle, by Snape—and hadn't stuck up for him properly. Harry also recalled, with a guilty rush, all the little things he'd said at one time or another that, in retrospect, were not particularly sensitive or kind about Neville—needling him about forgetting the password to the dormitories, joking about the sickening color of a potion gone wrong, moments when he'd wanted to disassociate himself from Neville because some cooler kid had entered the room.

It was Luna, of course, who finally broke the silence by announcing to the room that she was sure the trouble was probably being caused by Wrackspurts, and they should not hold Neville's words against him. They had all laughed, a bit awkwardly, and then the party had broken up—Luna, Hermione, and Ron stepping through the flames and disappearing into their individual lives. Ginny took one look at Harry's face—he'd never been particularly good at masking his emotions—and excused herself upstairs to get ready for bed.

Harry stood by the fire for a long time, staring into its depths and trying to make sense of the tangled thoughts in his mind. He wanted, very much, to go after Neville and tell him that his fears were unfounded, that there was nothing between himself and Draco, but the longer he stood in front of the flames the harder it was to imagine himself going after Neville at all. He just kept seeing Draco's face, in his mind, Draco's soft smile, his gray eyes inscrutable.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Despite his invitation for Ginny to make her stay at Grimmauld Place permanent, Harry found himself somewhat relieved when she decided to go back to the Burrow on Sunday afternoon. She'd spent Saturday continuing to obsess over her fight with Eleanor, and, true to Harry's prediction, as soon as the two had talked they'd reconciled. Hermione's pay phone plan seemed to be working, Ginny was over the moon, and her desire to hide away at Harry's flat quickly evaporated.

After Ginny's departure, Harry made two trips. First, he stopped by St. Mungo's and made his rounds in the children's ward. He hadn't been in a while, and felt guilty when he realized how many of the young patients were new faces for him. He loved spending time in the ward. He was continually surprised by how frank and open children could be—the first boy he visited told him flat out he'd expected Harry to be taller and more impressive, and the last girl he saw before leaving gave him an intimate account of her struggles with jealous classmates. They held nothing back. It was a quality Harry was beginning to appreciate more and more, even though he felt he wasn't always capable of that kind of honesty himself.

His second stop was to visit Teddy and Andromeda Tonks at their cottage. Teddy was just over two years old now, which seemed crazy. He could talk—not just a few words here and there, but sentences and all that. Granted, Harry could not always understand those sentences, and Andromeda frequently broke in to translate, but still. It seemed like every day that Harry was gone the kid must have grown several inches.

Harry was pleasantly surprised to find that Andromeda had not heard a word about Draco Malfoy, Harry's tutoring sessions, or his photo booth misadventures; Harry had been beginning to suspect Ginny of telling the world, but Andromeda remained blissfully unaware. Harry had planned to use his trip as an opportunity to plan a meeting between Draco and his Aunt and first cousin once removed, but given the awkward day he'd shared with Draco on Thursday, Harry was hesitant about trying to arrange anything of the sort for the time being. Without intending to, Harry let himself be talked into staying for Sunday dinner and didn't return to Grimmauld Place until late in the evening.

By Monday, he was still feeling unsettled after Neville's outburst, and was relieved when Hermione cancelled their Monday night Charms lesson due to an exam she was frantically studying for. He promised her he'd go over her (copious and color-coded) notes in her absence, but in the end all he managed was to read the first page and then get bored and try to spell the furniture to dance. He gave up after an abortive rhumba by the ottoman and then had a serious discussion with himself about whether or not it was time to get a pet—clearly he was spending too much time in his own head.

He didn't sleep well that night, either. He kept thinking, worrying, about Draco and how their next lesson would be. He didn't think he could go on with just an icy silence between them—he needed their conversations. In some weird way they seemed to compensate for Harry's indecision about so much else in his life. How had Draco become so important to Harry so quickly?

He fretted most of the night, and by morning had convinced himself that Draco hated him and would never confide in him ever again. He grimly prepared for the worst, and when the doorbell rang promptly at nine, he schooled his expression in neutrality before throwing open the door, only to find Draco, on the other side, was smiling, rather warmly. He had his silver snake clasp briefcase held before him primly, and was looking, Harry noted, rather smart in a grassy green wool sweater over his usual button down shirt.

"Harry, it's lovely to see you this morning. May I come in?"

"Er, yeah," Harry stammered, stepping aside. Draco walked in and past him to the living room, where he sat himself on the sofa and began to rifle through his case for his lesson notes. Harry followed dumbly behind him and sank into his chair.

"Did you have a nice weekend?" Draco asked.

"Yes… it was… long."

"And Ginny is doing well, I presume."

"Er, yeah. She went back home on Sunday."

"Starting training in a few weeks, hmm?"

"Yes, in a little over two weeks."

"Lovely. I'll be sure to make time to see a match when she starts playing."

"Right."

"My weekend was also quite nice. Had a bit of a breakthrough thinking up our next series of lessons—especially in regards to Transfiguration, which we've been rather neglecting. I think it might be helpful if we were to cover animate to inanimate transfigurations before we resume work on differential mass transfigurations, which you seem to be having more trouble with. I know that's more fifth year work, but you can never be too sure in your basics."

"Draco," Harry interrupted. Draco looked up from his papers with a pleasantly quizzical expression on his face.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Draco, why is it that every time you and I… argue," Harry began, slowly, "you always leave and come back later with a complete personality transplant."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Last time you were here you could barely stand to say Ginny's name. Now you're talking about going to one of her matches like we're all… Like we're…"

"Like we're friends?" Draco smirked, looking for a moment like his schoolboy self. "I know we're not quite friends yet, Harry. It's ok."

"I want to know. What do you do when you leave here that makes you come back so ready to talk? So changed?"

"Is that your question for the day?" Draco asked quietly.

"It's not lunch yet."

Draco shifted on the couch, leaving his briefcase and papers on the coffee table. He examined his hands in his lap for a moment before he began to speak.

"I don't mind telling you, but I hope you won't be too… judgmental. I know that you are someone who does not need a lot of help, that you are capable of taking care of yourself without having to have someone… point you in the right direction. But I'm not one of those people. I have a bit of a temper. I jump to conclusions sometimes. I have to work at overcoming that. I've come to recognize that if I'm ever going to straighten out the mess in my mind I need a little assistance. So, after I left Hogwarts, I began seeing a therapist."

Harry tried to keep a straight face, but couldn't help starting to laugh. It began as a slight giggle, but soon he was holding his middle, tears streaming down his face. The only thing that reigned in his mirth was Draco's face, which looked absolutely mortified.

"Potter, every time I think you have grown up and are no longer the absolute tosser that—"

"Draco, no I'm sorry—" Harry began, settling down. "It's not you. I'm not laughing at you. I think it's brilliant you are seeing a therapist. It makes me wonder why I'm not seeing a therapist because let's be honest—I probably need it."

"Oh." Draco shifted uncomfortably. "Then why are you laughing?"

"It's just… do you really think I'm someone who doesn't need a lot of help? That I don't have a temper? That I don't jump to conclusions? Draco, I'm bloody useless on my own. Why do you think I'm constantly hanging on to Hermione and Ron? And Ginny and Neville and Luna and everyone else? I'm pretty worthless by myself, to be honest."

"You can't seriously think that, Harry."

"You can't seriously think otherwise," Harry said, soberly. "If I were to write a memoir about the war, do you know what it would be called? It'd be called _Hermione Granger's Extra-Curricular Reading and How It Saved Us All from Certain Death_. The sequel would be called _Neville Longbottom Basically Won the War While All I Did Was Have A Bit of A Lie Down. _If I made it a trilogy, the final chapter would be _No, Seriously, I Spent Most of the War Wandering Around without a Clue._"

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Draco, I never thought I'd have to tell you of all people this, but I'm wrong more often than I'm right. Especially about people. When I think about the war, all I can ever think is that it's a miracle we're all still alive, because I was wrong about so many things: I was wrong about Snape. I was wrong about Dumbledore. I was wrong about…" Harry cut himself off before he said _I was wrong about you_ and amended, hastily, "I was wrong about a lot of things. The best that I can possibly do, ever, is surround myself with good people and trust them to help me figure out when I'm being a stubborn prat."

"Which is often. That much I do recall," Draco said. They both laughed, and a tension seemed to lift.

"I don't want to talk about me, Draco. I want to talk about you. So you're seeing a therapist? Tell me about it." Harry's tried to keep his voice business-like, but gentle. Draco looked up at him and their eyes met for a moment, making Harry's heart jump in his chest.

"When I went back to Hogwarts for eighth year I made an… unexpected friend: Argus Filch."

"Filch!"

"He caught me feeding Mrs. Norris one day in the sixth floor bathroom. I had very few friends that year, I had to make do with some odd ones—some feline, and some… controversial caretakers best known for their nasty tempers and gruff manner."

"Ok, so you befriended Filch and he became your therapist?" Harry asked, confused.

"Not quite. Filch is a squib, as I think you know. He told me how for years he'd felt full of self-loathing because he wasn't magical—how he felt he'd let down his parents and how he'd never be equal to his wizard brothers and sisters. When he had first started working at Hogwarts, Dumbledore had suggested he see a therapist from the magical community, a specialist in non-magic therapy. He'd been seeing her for over sixteen years. When he saw how much trouble I was having, he gave me her name. I looked her up when I left and now I see her once a week—usually on Wednesdays, but sometimes as needed if I'm feeling… fragile."

"Oh," Harry said, unable to think of a better response. "Sounds… sensible."

"It's been revelatory. My therapist, like Filch, is a squib. It's not like the magi-therapists at St. Mungo's who only know how to heal damage from spells and the like. She helps me deal with the things outside the world of magic."

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm sure she's a great therapist, but I'd have a hard time putting my faith in someone who had been treating Argus Filch for sixteen years—that man is positively one of the most twisted individuals I have ever met."

Draco laughed, a rich and throaty laugh that made Harry's stomach flip like he was on a roller coaster.

"In Filch's defense, teenagers are assholes, and I'd be a bit twisted if I had to spend all day cleaning up their messes. Also—did you ever notice that when Filch caught you doing something wrong you'd always get a lighter punishment?"

"What! No, he was always banging on about medieval torture techniques."

"Exactly! Look, Filch would catch you, bring you to McGonagall or whoever, and you'd be sure you were seconds away from getting detentions every Saturday until end of term, but then Filch would start yammering on about public floggings or whatever and McGonagall would say 'Fifty points from Slytherin and don't ever let me see you with fireworks near the girl's dormitories ever again!' and march off in a huff. I reckon Filch has reduced more punishments over the years than Dumbledore ever managed."

"Oh my god, you're right."

"It does happen. Occasionally." Draco's expression was amused, and Harry basked for a moment in the sheer pleasantness of the moment. The moment settled over them both, like a warm mantle, but as soon as fell it was suddenly gone—Harry thought, suddenly and guiltily, of Neville and his outburst Friday night. Argus Filch was exactly one of the people who'd seemed to take delight in tearing into Neville—even though Neville's transgressions were usually accidental, Filch would chew him out as though he'd done something wrong on purpose. It was hard to think of Filch in any other context than as a tormentor where Neville was concerned.

"Harry, what's wrong—you look so grim."

"It's nothing," Harry said, flushing. He did not relish the idea of telling Draco about his tiff with Neville.

"It's not nothing. You look as though someone has died."

"A lot of people have died," Harry replied morbidly.

"I meant recently."

"It's only been a little over a year. I call that recent enough." Harry could hear how petulant he sounded, but he couldn't stop himself. Draco looked affronted, but when he spoke his voice betrayed little emotion.

"Harry, I don't know what I've said or done to send you to this dark place you've apparently gone, but in the spirit of asking for help, I would appreciate it if you gave me at least a little clue."

"It's not you, Draco," Harry relented. "Or maybe it is… I don't know. I'm having a bit of a fight with Neville and it's complicated."

"You're fighting with Neville?"

"Sort of. More like he's fighting with me."

"And it's about me?"

Harry nodded and looked away, afraid to meet Draco's eyes.

"Harry, I don't know exactly what has been said between you and Neville, but I have a fairly good idea of the animosity he still harbors towards me—and rightly so. I did try, last year when we were back at school, to talk with him and apologize but… some mistakes can't be forgiven." Draco paused, as though searching for the right words. "I've come to find out a lot about forgiveness, and sometimes I think the smaller hurts are the hardest to heal. I made a lot of big mistakes—being on the wrong side of the war, and all—but the way I _was_… I mean, the person I was, that's something I can never take back or apologize for. All I can do is move forward, and commit myself to never going back to being that person again."

Harry looked up, and met Draco's eyes, which he was not surprised to see in an expression of defiance.

"What did you say?"

"I said I'm not going back."

_That's what Neville said_, Harry thought, but he didn't say it out loud.

"I've been reading a lot about forgiveness and grief in the past year," Harry said instead.

"Reading?"

"Yes. Muggle literature. Recently, I've been reading a lot of novels. But last year just after the war I read loads of poetry. I'd find bits I liked and try to memorize them. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me sane—if I started to get too deep in my own head I'd start repeating verses to myself to keep it all together." Harry looked away sheepishly. He'd never told anyone about memorizing poetry, not even Ron. Well, especially not Ron—he thought Ron would probably take the piss out of him for reading voluntarily outside of school.

"Do you still remember them?" Draco asked. He looked very sincere, his gray eyes wide. He leaned forward towards Harry. "Will you recite something for me?"

"Nothing can be taken back," Harry intoned, trying to remember the words and infuse them with meaning at the same time, "not the leaves by the trees, the rain by the clouds. You want to take back the ugly thing you said, but some shrapnel remains in the wound, some mud."

"Is that from a poem?"

"Yes, it is. It was my favorite, for a long time. I can only remember bits of it, though it isn't very long—but memorization was never my strong suit and it doesn't rhyme or anything and that makes it harder. The last lines are my favorite."

"What are they?"

"Some piece of you stays in me and I'll never give it back," Harry spoke slowly, trying to get each word right, "and the heart hoards its thorns, just as the rose profligates. Just because you've had enough doesn't mean you wanted too much."

"Just because you've had enough doesn't mean you wanted too much," Draco repeated. "I've never really understood Muggle poetry, but the words do seem… powerful."

"Like an incantation."

"Kudos on the word profligates."

"Thanks, I thought I pronounced it tolerably well." Harry flashed a smile and was pleased when Draco returned it. They sat for a moment in silence before Draco finally sat fully forward and began to gather his papers again.

"Harry, much as I hate to break up our literary tete-a-tete, we should get to our lesson at some point today."

Harry sighed. Even though he actually enjoyed his lessons with Draco—working side by side with the blond felt oddly comforting, even when his stomach was in knots—he felt today like he would do anything to keep Draco here just talking to him. Perhaps because of how cold Draco had been last Thursday, he wanted to reassure himself that this Draco—laughing and smiling at shared jokes—still existed.

"Draco…" Harry began, but he couldn't think of anything to say to justify skiving off.

"Harry, please," Draco said, his voice suddenly deep. Their eyes met and Harry felt the urge to reach over and touch him.

"Ok, let's make a deal," Harry said, finally, breaking the moment.

"What kind of deal?"

"I will work on the lesson with you, starting now but you have to…" Harry tried to think of an appropriate reward.

"I'll sing you a song," Draco put in.

"You sing?"

"Quite well, actually," Draco said proudly. "I sang in the choir all through grade school, and I had a private vocal coach and everything."

"Do I get to choose the song?"

"You don't know my range—believe me, it'll be better if I choose the song."

"Alright—but, Draco—sing me your favorite song."

Draco nodded, then extended his hand towards Harry. Trying to mask his trepidation, Harry shook Draco's hand to seal their compact. _At least this time my palms aren't sweating_, was all he could think.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The lesson seemed to go on for ages, and then Draco insisted on a quick lunch to make up for their delayed start to the day. He'd vetoed Harry's attempt to ask a question, saying that Harry had already had his for the day that morning, and his own question was a softball: what was Harry's favorite beverage? Despite, or perhaps because, of this, Harry tried valiantly to draw the subject out, succeeding in starting a spirited debate on the relative merits of coffee versus tea versus hot cider, and which was more refreshing, pink lemonade or regular lemonade.

Their afternoon session also seemed to drag on and on, but, true to his word, at five o'clock Draco promptly set aside his books and papers and, with a wave of his wand, transfigured what had been a large paperweight into a ukulele. Harry was impressed—it wasn't a simple transfiguration—and mildly amused.

"Never in a million years did I ever think I'd see you with a ukulele."

"It's a baritone ukulele, has a lovely sound. I suppose I could have gone for a guitar, but I rather like the ukulele—there's something very haunting about it. But also twinkly, you know?"

Harry did not know, so he opted to say, simply: "Can you play it?"

Draco rolled his eyes and shushed Harry with a finger held in the air. He began to tune the instrument, plucking at the strings one at a time until he was satisfied. He then began to pick a little melody, softly at first but then with more confidence. It was clear he hadn't played for a while, but as he played a practiced mastery of the instrument took over and his long fingers moved assuredly from string to string.

Harry watched, mesmerized. When the melody had run through once, Draco began to sing. Harry didn't recognize the song—he supposed it must be a wizard song. It sounded a little childish, like something you might sing to soothe someone to sleep after a bad dream. Draco's voice was warm and rich, deeper than Harry had expected, with a beautiful tone. It wasn't too perfect, or too studied, but Draco had clearly spent some time learning to use his voice well—he knew the limits of his range, when to pull in and when to belt out. Harry was sure that he had never heard anything quite so beautiful in his life.

And, suddenly, Harry had no more doubts. He knew exactly what he wanted—he wanted this man, this singing, beautiful man with his rolled up sleeves and his neat little tie and his calm presence. He wanted Draco Malfoy. The force of the realization hit him hard, like a physical blow, and he actually had to sit back in his chair.

If Draco noticed his changed demeanor, he didn't show it, but kept on singing. A few moments later, the song came to a close and Draco set the ukulele down on his knee.

"Well, what did you think? Was it worth doing your lesson today?"

"Draco, that was… that was beautiful. I wish I had a better word but I… what was that song?"

"My father used to sing it to me, when I was a boy. He called it the Wolf Song. I've never heard it anywhere else, and I think he might have made it up himself."

"You sing it very well."

Draco smiled, a sad kind of smile as though lost in the past.

"After my father was sent to Azkaban, in sixth year, I wrote the accompaniment for it—father always sang it unaccompanied. I used to play it in the Room of Requirement when I was still… hiding from the world."

"Oh," Harry said, unable to think of a better response, "it's lovely. I didn't know you could do that."

"Compose music?"

"Mmmmm."

"Yes, the arts are not much practiced at Hogwarts. One reason my mother wanted me to go to Beauxbatons, they have an excellent music programme."

"I thought your parents wanted you to go to Durmstrang."

"Father wanted Durmstrang. Mother wanted Beauxbatons—she loves everything French, you know. They couldn't decide between the two so they ended up sending me to Hogwarts anyways."

"Do you regret being sent to Hogwarts?"

Draco shrugged and idly fingered the stings of the ukulele.

"It might have been nice to have been farther from home, maybe away from the pressures of the Malfoy name. But in the end what happened was what happened."

"That's quite the totality."

Draco shrugged again. He pulled out his wand and made to transform the ukulele back to a paperweight, but Harry stopped him, stilling his wand arm with a hand on his wrist.

"Wait—leave it. That way you can come and play it another time."

"I haven't made the transfiguration permanent."

"Then let it change back on its own time—I like having it here."

Draco nodded and slowly pulled his arm away from Harry's hand.

"I should probably start packing it in for the day," Draco said, "I'm sure you have plans for the evening and I'm keeping you from them."

"Draco—you don't have to leave. You could stay for dinner, if you like."

Draco gave him a kind but weary smile.

"Thank you for the invitation, Harry, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline this evening. Some other time."

"What about tomorrow?"

"I tutor other students on weekday evenings."

Harry felt a pang at the idea of Draco with other students. When had he become so jealous of Draco's time?

"What about Friday?" Harry persisted.

Draco looked towards the ceiling, as though debating his next words carefully. Before he could respond Harry broke in again.

"What about a dinner party. I could invite Hermione and Ron, and Ginny and Eleanor. We'll have a little group. It won't just be you and me." Harry put in the last bit as an afterthought and Draco made an odd face, but then relented.

"Alright," Draco paused, "yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I will come to your dinner party on Friday. With your friends." Draco placed what seemed to be an undue amount of stress on the word friends and Harry felt a brief panic that Draco saw through him utterly and knew exactly what he was about.

His panic was short lived, however, because the next moment Draco smiled a very warm smile and reassured him that he would be looking forward to the party.

Draco packed away his things and Harry walked him to the front door. As they walked down the narrow hallway, Harry had to hold himself back from reaching out to touch Draco's arm, pull him close into an embrace. He felt like his whole body was on fire—now that he had crossed the line from confused to committed to his desire, he was having a hard time not jumping straight into Draco full force. On the front porch, Draco turned to say goodbye, his face inscrutable.

"Harry… I just want to say," Draco began, but whatever he had been about to say died on his lips and his expression changed to something more resolute. "I'll see you Thursday. And study your Transfiguration, for god's sake, or even I won't be able to help you."

"Good bye Draco."

"Good bye Harry." And with that he turned to leave.

Harry watched him disappear down the street for a ways and then returned to his flat. He sat himself in the living room, across from the ukulele, wondering how long it would remain a musical instrument—when it would change back to its earlier form.

_God help me_, he thought. _I'm in love with Draco Malfoy._


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: This chapter is a bit shorter than the last three, but I thought I'd go ahead and post it. Thanks so much for all the new reviews, and to everyone who is following along. I love reading your comments (even the negative ones!), and I appreciate the feedback. This is my first fic ever, so I really do feel like I'm figuring it all out as I go along. I have a bunch of RL deadlines coming up, so I can't promise I'll be posting with absolute regularity. **

Harry was actually quite pleased with himself as he cast a transparency spell on his oven door to check the progress of the leg of lamb he'd been roasting for the past few hours. Harry definitely enjoyed cooking, and he was fairly good at it, but once and a while he'd find himself becoming over ambitious and the results could be disastrous. Doubly so if Ginny were involved. But, tonight's complicated meal of Moroccan style lamb with a variety of elaborate side dishes seemed to be coming together quite nicely. He glanced at the clock on the wall and mentally went over everything left to do in his mind. _Draco would be here soon._ He couldn't help but think, and he ran a hair through his hair absently, trying to push it into something more attractive than its typical rumpled mess.

Thinking of Draco made his stomach do a minor flip-flop. He was getting used to it. Since their musical session on Tuesday, Harry had spent more time than he'd like to admit day-dreaming about Draco's deep voice, his clever fingers, his lips… He'd become even more nervous than usual during their Thursday Transfiguration lesson and had somehow managed to break three vases that he'd been trying to turn into lamps and set the fourth on fire. Draco had eventually abandoned the lesson in favor of reading a very slow and remedial lecture that began "What _is _Transfiguration?" and included several childish anecdotes where basic magical concepts were debated in forced dialogue between famous wizards from throughout history. At another time in his life, this would have angered Harry as an insult to his intelligence, but now he just felt mortified and blushed copiously while Rowena Ravenclaw and Wendell the Weird catechistically recounted the Three Laws of Magical Energy. The more Harry tried to impress Draco, the more he stumbled, stuttered, flustered, and failed. That the meal seemed to be coming together of its own accord made Harry pathetically grateful—at least he still had some talents.

He was tasting the thick, burgundy colored sauce that was to accompany the lamb when the bell rang. He cast a hasty stasis over the sauce so it wouldn't congeal, lowered the heat on the other two occupied eyes, and loped down the hall towards the front door. He thought it would probably be Ginny, seeing as it was still a bit early—he knew that she and Eleanor were coming separately, and that meant Ginny would try to arrive first so she could unburden the week's worth of emotional processing at Harry before dinner began. However, when he threw wide the door, he found Draco standing there instead.

Harry opened his mouth to say hello, but felt the greeting catch in his throat—Draco looked, for lack of a better word, gorgeous. Since Draco had begun tutoring him, Harry had noted that Draco tended to wear Muggle clothing, more or less—prudent, Harry supposed, as Grimmauld was in a more Muggle-heavy area of town and Draco appeared to favor walking to Harry's home—but he usually retained some wizard items: gaudy jewelry, a holster for his wand, a short cloak thrown about his shoulders, dragon-hide boots, that sort of thing. But today, Draco was dressed, head to toe, in an immaculate, and completely Muggle, three-piece suit. It was very well-tailored, fitting close to his body. It wasn't quite the style of the day for men's suiting—it looked a bit old-fashioned—but it suited Draco's slim, tall frame exactly. The fabric was fine, in a rich shade of dark butterscotch, shot through with a subtle pin-stripe in a shade of nutty brown. Under the waistcoat, Draco wore a simple, cream colored shirt and a slim, silky tie in a burnt orange color that made Harry think of autumn harvest bonfires, spiced apple cider, and pumpkin pie all at once. In his right hand, Draco was carrying a bouquet of flowers and in his left a bottle of wine—or maybe champagne, to judge by the cork.

Harry became acutely aware that he was staring, and forced himself to drop the stupid expression of wonder he was sure had stolen over his features in favor of a lopsided grin.

"I'm so glad you're here, Draco. Come on in."

"Thank you," Draco said, and stepped into the house.

"You look… really nice," Harry mumbled, almost under his breath as they walked down the hall.

"Thank you," Draco said again, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Dinner's almost ready—do you mind if I finish up in the kitchen? I can pour you a glass of wine if you like," Harry gestured towards the bottle in Draco's hand. Draco looked down at it, then up into Harry's eyes and handed him the bottle.

"It's not wine—it's sparkling cider. A Muggle drink. And non-alcoholic." Draco made a distasteful face, reminding Harry of Narcissa Malfoy's pinched expressions. "I don't drink. I mean, I don't drink alcoholic beverages."

"Oh," was all Harry could think to say to that. He wondered briefly if there was a story to that, but felt it was safer not to ask. They reached the kitchen and Harry set the bottle on the counter, then rummaged in the cabinets until he found two glasses and a vase.

"I see at least some of your housewares have escaped the terrors of your spellcasting," Draco said sardonically. Harry blushed furiously. He tried to think of a retort, but gave up. It was too early in the evening to put his foot in his mouth.

"The flowers are beautiful," he said lamely, and handed the vase to Draco. Draco's mouth twitched as he set the flowers in the vase, then moved to the sink to fill it with water.

"My mother picked them out from her garden. I envy her gardening skills. Alas, I've only ever been mediocre at Herbology—neither a green thumb nor a black one."

"You make it sound like you'd rather be worse at it than just ok."

Draco wrinkled his nose and set the vase on the kitchen table.

"I hate being in the middle. Being average, I mean. It's something I'm trying to work on, actually," Draco looked thoughtfully at the blossoms, then smiled at Harry. "Not something you have to worry about, though. You seem to either succeed handily or fail spectacularly at everything you try. You are a study in extremes."

Harry snorted. "I guess you could say that." He cast a few haphazard Charms towards the stove—mostly checking up—and then turned back to Draco, summoning up his courage. "You really do look nice. I, er… like that tie."

Draco's hand flew up to his necktie and he stroked the silky fabric, making Harry's mouth go dry.

"I hope I've gotten the look right. I know you said Eleanor is still under the impression that Ginny Weasley is a mere mortal and Hogwarts a pretentious preparatory school, so I thought a bit of extra care in dress was in order so as not to arouse any suspicions about my upbringing. I had a bit of a time finding something suitable, though, I had to…" he broke off, swallowed, and then resumed again. "The suit was my father's. He hated Muggles, but he was meticulous about observing their customs when the situation dictated it."

"You look really nice," Harry said again, "really nice." He blushed, and turned back to the stove to hide it. He really needed to find a new phrase.

"So when does the rest of the party arrive?" Draco asked.

"I expect Ginny will be here any moment—I thought you would be her when you rang, actually. Eleanor might be a bit late. She has to come across town from band practice."

"What about Ron and Hermione?"

"Oh, er…" Harry stammered, "they can't make it. Hermione has some big essay due on Monday and is encamped in the library at her school, perhaps permanently, and Ron is on assignment as part of his Auror training—he didn't give me details, I think because he isn't permitted to."

Draco's brow furrowed slightly, but then straightened out into a musing expression.

"I suppose I should have anticipated the day that Hermione Granger would merge bodily with a library and become completely incorporate with the books inside."

Harry chuckled, though he'd only half-comprehended the joke. He was saved from further comment by the sound of the bell. He handed off a glass of the sparkling cider Draco had brought and walked to the front door. Draco trailed behind a few steps, peering past Harry's shoulder with interest.

Ginny and Eleanor stood on the doorstep, holding hands and looking pink-cheeked from the chilly early evening air.

"Ran into each other about a block away," Ginny said, grinning, and they both stepped inside.

"Eleanor, this is Draco Malfoy, my tutor and… an old friend. From school," Harry said.

Eleanor reached out her hand for Draco's and shook enthusiastically. For his part, Draco was looking at her with astonishment and a bit of skepticism. Harry could see why—Eleanor had a bit of a mad streak when it came to style. Today, she was wearing a leather biker jacket over an oversized white tee-shirt that had been hacked off at the bottom so that it fell to her waist. It had the words "Punk Rock Will Never Diet!" written across it in what appeared to be black marker. She had on a short, plaid skirt over black stockings and worn, intimidating combat boots on her feet. Her hair, which was curly and black, had been arranged on top of her head in an elaborate and messy bun, and pieces of it were streaked a pinkish-purple color.

"It's lovely to meet you," Draco said, finally.

"Heard a lot about you," Eleanor countered, grinning.

"Really? I'd be curious to know what sorts of things," Draco said with a curious smile.

"Oh all sorts," Eleanor leaned over towards Draco, pulling him in by his hand, which she still clasped, and spoke in a stage whisper. "These two say the oddest things some times. Can't tell if Ginny thinks you're a prat or thinks the most brilliant bloke she's ever met. And Harry… well, from what I hear—" Ginny cleared her throat loudly and gave Eleanor a pointed look. Harry might have been amused, if he wasn't too busy blushing furiously, and Draco looked absolutely bewildered. Harry was used to Eleanor by this time, and found her tendency to mischievous frankness and her almost instant intimacy with everyone she met to be endearing, but he'd been taken aback when they had first met. Eleanor could be very funny, and very sweet, but she could also be very loud and… alarming.

Eleanor released Draco's hand, but smiled conspiratorially.

"Don't worry, Draco, we've got all night to become friends." She punctuated the promise with a light elbow to Draco's ribs.

"I think we should all move into the living room," Ginny said, but for a moment no one moved. Draco was staring at Eleanor like she might bite him, Eleanor was beaming at Draco like he was a long lost brother, and Harry was shifting awkwardly and suddenly remembering how Muggle-phobic Draco had been their entire time at Hogwarts.

"Living room!" Ginny said, again, rather sharply. Draco, Harry, and Eleanor all snapped to attention at the sound. Her eyes widened and she threw up her hands. "Sorry, that came out a bit mouthier than I meant. But it was a long walk and I would like to sit down."

Eleanor grabbed Ginny's wrist and pulled her off towards the kitchen: "Drinks, first, darling," she looked back over her shoulder from halfway down the hall and yelled to Harry, "we'll meet you in there. Libations await! I assume everything's where it was last time I was here?"

Harry opened his mouth to explain about the recent reorganization, but decided against it. She was too far off, and she'd end up ransacking the cabinets no matter what he said.

"So, er, care to join me in the living room?"

Draco shrugged, still looking a little shell shocked, but followed Harry into the next room nevertheless. When they were seated, he spoke.

"Eleanor is… interesting."

"She's a character."

"Is she always so…"

"Forward?"

"I was going to say frightening, but let's go with forward instead."

Harry chuckled.

"She scared the pants off me when she first moved in next door. Used to just pop in without knocking—I was always afraid she'd catch me in a spell or something."

"Are all Muggles like that?" Draco looked around nervously, as though he expected Harry's neighborhood of Muggles would come crashing through the front door any moment.

"No, just Eleanor. I thought she was a bit mental at first, but after a while I figured out she was just popping in because she hoped she'd run into Ginny." Harry smiled, "It's funny—she can be really sensitive if the tables are turned—they got in a bit of a tiff last week when Ginny showed up unannounced."

"Sometimes the hardest things to accept about other people are the things we fear are true about ourselves," Draco said softly, looking down at his drink.

"Fine words," said Ginny, from the doorway. Her voice was light and she looked a bit flushed and Harry felt a surge of jealousy that was strange and unexpected. He wasn't jealous that Eleanor had probably snogged Ginny into this flushed state in his kitchen, but rather that the two of them seemed so happy. So couple-y.

Ginny flopped onto one of the armchairs with little ceremony. She had a tall glass about half full of murky liquid—it fizzed darkly and looked not at all appetizing. She saw Harry eyeing her drink and rolled her eyes at it.

"El's playing bartender. It looks like horror incarnate but knowing her it'll probably taste fantastic."

"It takes a fantastic person to mix a fantastic drink," Eleanor said, entering with her own murky fizz. "Cheers!"

"Cheers," they all chanted, and everyone took a sip.

"Harry, you know you've got about a dozen pots on the stove—aren't you afraid of the whole thing going up?" Eleanor asked.

"It'll be fine—it's, uh, got some time left to cook," Harry said, knowing his stasis charms would keep the food from getting overcooked.

"Also, your cabinets are all mixed up. And weird. Didn't recognize half the stuff in there and I'm pretty sure some of your herbs have gone off—one of them looked like a rotting foot. Took me ages to find the cinnamon."

"You put cinnamon in that?" Draco asked, pointing at Ginny's drink.

"Better to ask what she didn't put in it," Ginny said suggestively, and Draco shuddered.

"I suppose it's your stomach," he said.

"And Harry, I have got to know, and I know that Ginny is going to ream me for being off-color and all that, but I have to know," Eleanor whipped her arm from behind her back, and Harry jumped half out of his seat, recognizing his wand in her hand. "What on earth kind of sex toy is this and why do you keep it in the kitchen?"

Harry could _feel_ his face changing colors—white, red, green, pink, purple—and his mouth worked open and closed again without sound coming out. Ginny looked alternately worried and amused. Finally, Draco spoke.

"Eleanor, that that item belongs to me," he said calmly, and his lips curved into a devious smile. "It's my magic wand."

"Your what?" Eleanor said at the same time that Harry shot out a warning "Draco…"

"It's alright Harry. I know you don't approve of my hobbies, but not everyone is quite so judgmental."

"Judgmental?"

"You see, Eleanor, I'm something of an amateur magician. Magic tricks, you know. Rabbits out of hats, water into wine, sawing ladies in half, that sort of thing." Draco's voice was even and smooth, and Harry and Ginny's eyes met in wonder. Harry was incredulous at Draco's completely seamless lie, but also a bit surprised that he knew anything about Muggle magic tricks.

"Harry here has always teased me about it," Draco continued, affecting a hurt tone, "especially in school. He taunted me mercilessly. I brought that wand along tonight because I was hoping to show off some new tricks I've been practicing. But I can tell by Harry's face that it'll be the incident with the dove in the boy's locker room all over again."

"The incident with the what?" Ginny interjected.

"_I_ teased _you_!" Harry spluttered.

Eleanor laughed merrily.

"Oh, I can see it now. I always knew you must have been one of those popular kids in school—a bully. I bet you were quite the tormentor for poor Draco."

"You have his character so exactly," Draco said with perfect sincerity. Harry felt himself growing warm.

"I was not a bully!" he exclaimed.

"It's all right, Harry. We all go through our phases. And Ginny already told me you and Draco never got on at school. Now I know why."

"Yes, he's quite intolerant of magic," Draco moaned, "he never once let me pull a quarter out of his ear."

Ginny laughed at this, and her laughter proved contagious. Eleanor soon joined in, followed by Draco, whose rich voice made Harry feel at once mollified and indignant.

"Yeah, yeah, have a good laugh at Harry Potter," he grumbled. "I'm off to the kitchen—dinner in ten?"

Ginny nodded to acknowledge, still giggling.

Dinner itself was rather more sedated—which Harry hoped meant that the food was passable. It all looked good, but Harry barely tasted any of it. He was too busy blushing and trying not to stare at Draco and keep up with the conversation which, thanks to Eleanor, was moving at a lightening speed. He felt genuinely relieved when he brought out the dessert course: a simple dish of fresh figs topped with lavender honey and crème fraiche.

"Harry this is delicious," Ginny enthused, "I expected you to bake a pie again, but this is almost better."

"Nothing is better than pie," Harry said, seriously, and everyone laughed.

"I didn't know you could bake," Draco said.

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me," Harry replied. Their eyes met across the table and Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry couldn't tell if his expression was meant as a challenge or a question.

"Well, I only know of two sure-fire methods to fix that problem," Eleanor piped in brightly.

"What do you suggest?" Ginny asked, leaning conspiratorially over towards her girlfriend.

"We could play Truth or Dare."

Draco snorted. "Veto. We aren't eleven year olds at a sleepaway camp."

"Or we could go out for karaoke." She smiled broadly, but was greeted by blank looks from both Ginny and Draco.

"I don't know what a karaoke is," Draco said, "but I'm much too stuffed at the moment to eat anything else. Perhaps we should save it for another time."

"You've never heard of karaoke? None of you?" Draco and Ginny shook their heads, mystified.

"I know what it is," Harry said, "but I've never done it."

"It's something you do?" Draco said, suspiciously.

"Yeah, it's a Mug—I mean, it's a thing people do at bars and pubs. There's a machine that plays songs and a little screen where all the lyrics scroll by and you pick a song and sing it."

"It's brilliant," Eleanor said, "and you can tell a lot about someone by what song they choose."

"For example?" Ginny asked.

"A bloke who picks 'Pour Some Sugar On Me' is to be avoided at all costs—even if he offers to pay for your drink. A girl who sings anything by Alanis Morisette will definitely end the night plastered and in a fight with her boyfriend. Love songs are usually sung by people who are pulling, not people in love. Nostalgic throwbacks are for the ones who have come with a big group. Power ballads indicate a low alcohol tolerance."

"I don't think I understood a word of that," Draco said and Harry chuckled.

"What do you usually sing?" Ginny asked.

"I have a few favorites on rotation. 'Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys' is my current favorite, but I've been known to belt 'Islands in the Stream' upon occasion if I have a good dueting partner."

"You know," Harry said, perking up, "Draco is a fantastic singer. You two should sing a song together."

"Are you seriously suggesting that we leave the privacy of your flat and journey to an unknown pub some godforsaken part of town in order to expose ourselves in front of a bunch of drunk… persons?" Draco asked.

"Oh, Draco, I'm sure Harry can think of some other ways for you to expose yourself if you're shy about doing it in public," Ginny said with a leer.

"Ginny!"

"Sorry, Harry. But he did kind of walk into that one."

"I don't think any of us should be exposing ourselves to anything or anyone at anytime," Harry said.

"Good luck with that," laughed Eleanor, "personally, I think exposing oneself is warranted time and again." She reached over and squeezed Ginny's hand on the table, and Harry flushed.

"Well, far be it from me to spoil any plans for singing or soul-baring this evening, but I am afraid I'll have to be going shortly. I have an early morning," Draco said, rising.

"No magic tricks tonight, then?" Eleanor said. Draco smiled and leaned over and, to Harry's surprise, pulled a quarter from her ear.

"I try never to disappoint. It was lovely to meet you, Eleanor, and good to see you again too, Ginny." And with that Draco began to leave the room. Harry watched him go feeling a bit at a loss—dinner had been going so well, and yet Draco was leaving so early. Perhaps Draco was more sensitive to the teasing than he had let on.

"Harry," Ginny said quietly, "aren't you going to _see him out_?"

"Oh!" Harry jumped up. Of course that was the polite thing to do. He rushed out of the room and down the hall, finding Draco in the front foyer putting on an amber-colored scarf that Harry was quite sure he hadn't had when he'd arrived.

"It's turned a bit cold," Draco said, "I conjured this, but very discretely, I assure you."

"It's alright. I don't think Eleanor noticed anything." Harry shuffled in the hall, unsure what to say next. "She seems rather taken with you."

"Does she?"

"Yeah. Er, thanks for coming. Sorry about all the ribbing at dinner. I hope you didn't feel ganged up on."

"Not at all," Draco said. His expression was completely neutral, but his eyes were bright. Harry wanted so badly to move closer to him, reduce the distance between their bodies. He wanted to touch the soft scarf and feel the smooth fabric of Draco's suit. Unconsciously, he leaned forward, his whole body at attention.

"Well, Harry, it's been a pleasant evening and I—"

"When will I see you again?" Harry asked, in a rush. His voice came out unexpectedly low and rough. Draco's eyes widened, but then he looked away.

"You'll see me on Tuesday, Harry. For our _lesson_." Draco's voice was quiet, but emphatic. _I can't let him leave_, Harry thought, and he reached out his hand to grab Draco's wrist, but Draco shied away.

"I'd like to see you before then."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Harry."

"We could visit Teddy and Andromeda, this weekend. If you like." Harry could hear the note of desperation in his voice, and he willed himself to stop talking—nothing in Draco's demeanor indicated that he was at all receptive to Harry's advances, but Harry felt like Tuesday was ages away. And when it arrived—would they just go back to lessons and awkward moments?

"I'd like that very much, Harry, I really would. But I don't think it's a good idea for us to see too much of each other."

Harry moved back a step, stung. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't mean anything by it," Draco said, with a look of concern, and he put his hand on Harry's shoulder as if to reassure him, "I value your friendship."

Their eyes met and Harry couldn't stop himself. He stepped forward and in one swift motion set his lips to Draco's and kissed him. For three thrilling seconds, it seemed as though Draco would let himself be kissed, but Harry felt himself being pushed away, firmly but gently.

"I have to go," Draco said, simply. And then he was gone. Harry slumped morosely against the wall, mentally kicking himself. What was it Draco had said about spectacular failure?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Harry,_

_This letter has been very difficult to write. Please forgive me for my somewhat abrupt exit from your flat on Friday night. I had intended to leave early—I really did have an early morning—but I should have stayed a moment or two longer to explain myself, my feelings, in the hall instead of bolting. The truth is, your kiss caught me quite off guard._

_ I have been aware, almost from the moment that you reentered my life a few weeks ago, that my feelings for you are more than that of a friend. However, circumstances beyond my control prevent me from ever wanting to act on those feelings. Harry, I am not well. The war, my father's death, my current outcast status—all of these things weigh heavily on me. I think you know me well enough by now to know that I am no longer interested in pity. I am working very hard to make reparations, to myself and to the world, but the cost of this work is heavy. It consumes my life. I have no room for you at present._

_ One of the things I have been trying very hard to achieve in my life these days is balance. It is clear to me that you and I would never be able to have a balanced relationship. We will never be equals and therefore we can never be lovers. You will always be, in the eyes of the world, superior. And you will always be, to me, the man that saved my life, who showed me mercy at a time when mercy was what I needed most. Even now, I have no way of knowing if the feelings I have towards you are genuine, or if they are simply the grateful yearnings of a man desperate to repay a kind act._

_ Of course, I do not want to read too much into your kiss. It may have been the impulse of a moment, or it may be that you are simply attracted to me, but no deeper feelings lurk underneath. In either case, I think you will see why I still need your assurance that any discussions or actions designed to transform our friendship into something more must be at an end. _

_ I will see you on Tuesday, as promised, for Potions. Please know that I am at pains writing this._

_Yours, _

_Draco_

XXXXXXXXX

_Draco,_

_I'm sorry. I just needed to know what it would be like. I can't stop thinking about you. It won't happen again. I think I might be in love with you, but I've never been in love before and I think I might need you. I_

Harry ripped up the bit of parchment and threw it into the fire in disgust. Nothing he wrote made sense, and this was his fourth attempt to write a reply to Draco's letter, which had arrived that morning tied to the leg of a particularly imposing owl. Lines from the letter kept floating through his mind, making it impossible to write anything coherent. Each of his letters alternated between promises that he wouldn't push Draco or try to kiss him again and desperate pleading for Draco to give him a chance.

He picked up a new bit of parchment and dipped his quill, but this time did not attempt a reply to Draco. Instead, he found himself writing:

_Hermione—I need you. Please come over. –Harry._

He debated putting in details, but couldn't bring himself to do so. His owl, Pierpoint, hooted softly as Harry attached the letter to his leg. He gave the owl a treat and sent him off through the kitchen window, then sat at the kitchen table.

He didn't know how long he sat there before he heard the Floo roar to life, and Hermione's voice, shrill with worry, calling down the hall.

"Harry, Harry are you in here…" she walked into the kitchen and stopped, taking in Harry's slumped posture with narrowed eyes. "Not life threatening then?"

Harry said nothing, but tried to look as miserable as possible. Hermione rolled her eyes and set about making tea. She bustled about in the cabinets, complaining loudly.

"Seeing as how I don't see any blood or bruises or missing limbs or any other indication that you've suffered bodily harm, and seeing as I've actually spoken to Ginny since Friday night, unlike you, I assume you've come over to discuss whatever is happening with you and Draco. Honestly, Harry, I do think you've been a bit of a drama queen about all of this. Draco seems so steady and quiet these days—he's not the trouble-maker he was. Aren't you just stirring up trouble? And I know you need a friend but I have to remind you that I have a very important essay that I haven't even finished researching on the classification of jinxes and curses and the criminalization of non-wizard magical beings. You know I've never liked Fudge, but now that I've been looking into some of his policies on spell classification I've got to say that he shows a clear bias—the Jelly-legs Jinx, for example, is a pardonable misdemeanor, provided no physical injury is sustained due to the casting, but the Knee-knobble Curse, which is practically the same spell but usually favored by House Elves as a self-defense tactic is punishable by thirty days of confinement. It's shocking—though really not all that surprising…"

Harry let her ramble on, and even caught himself smiling. It was hard not to listen to Hermione rant without feeling a warm glow for his friend. She talked clear through preparing two cups of tea, yelling loudly over the whistle of the kettle something about how the colloquial use of 'hex' had emerged historically as a response to increased governmental regulation. Finally, she sat opposite Harry, pushed a cup towards him and said, "Alright. Talk. I've talked plenty. Now it's your turn."

"I don't know what to say."

"Well, then, I'll be off," Hermione said breezily, making a move as if to go. Harry caught her hand.

"No, don't go. Please stay."

"What's going on, Harry?"

"I kissed him."

"Draco?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He just left. Just like that. And then on Saturday I got this." Harry reached into his pocket and retrieved Draco's letter, which had been folded and refolded so much already that it looked worn and tattered.

Hermione took the letter and read through it, her face impassive.

"Well, that's a lot to take in," she said when she finished, handing the parchment back to Harry.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"What do you have to say, Harry? The last time I saw you, you weren't even sure how you felt about him. It seems like things are moving pretty fast for you."

"I think I might be in love with him."

Hermione's eyes widened.

"Very, very fast."

"I know, I know."

"Harry, are you sure?"

"Of course I'm not sure. When am I ever sure? Why do you think I kissed him—I needed to find out how I felt."

"So the kiss was an experiment?"

"That sounds awful when you put it like that, but honestly, how else am I supposed to sort out my feelings unless I act on them?"

"Spoken like a true Gryffindor."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You sound like Malfoy saying that."

Hermione shrugged and sipped her tea. "Maybe I'm trying to see things from his perspective."

"Are you saying I'm not?"

"Harry, do you believe what Draco wrote in that letter?"

"You mean that we can never be equals? Of course not! I don't think of Draco as inferior to anyone. I like the slimy git! He's smart and he makes me laugh and he's surprisingly kind and he's so very… blond." Harry blushed. He was definitely going to have to work harder on articulating his attraction to Draco.

"That's all very well and good—but I meant do you think that Draco sincerely believes what he wrote—that this letter represents what Draco sees as the truth."

"Yeah, I do."

"Then I think you have to take seriously what he says."

"Hermione, you don't understand."

"Explain it to me." Hermione's expression was kind, but Harry felt frustrated nevertheless.

"I can't. I just… I have these feelings. I don't know what to do with them, but I feel like I have to find out. Draco is how I find out. I think if I don't pursue this with him, there will be a part of myself that I will never be able to understand."

"Harry, if this is just about figuring out if you really are attracted to men—"

"It's not that. At least, I don't think it is. I think it's Draco. I think if I can't be with him then… I don't know what."

Hermione's eyebrows raised in alarm and Harry realized he'd gotten rather louder than he meant to. He modulated his voice and spoke softer.

"Hermione, I know it sounds crazy, and I know you think I'm making more out of this than there is, but… this just feels so important to me right now. I don't know how to just put that away and not act on it."

"You might have to do just that. Maybe if you give him some space, some time, become friends in the eyes of the world and let him heal a bit—he might come around."

"It could be years before he comes around, Hermione, if he comes around. Could you wait years pretending to be just friends with the love of your life?" Harry winced a little at the last bit—he was being a bit hyperbolic, but he had to get Hermione to see how urgent the situation really was. To his complete surprise, Hermione burst into a loud, barking laughter.

"Harry, you are unbelievable. Where were you during my entire adolescence when I was doing exactly that? Ron and I didn't exactly just wake up one morning and mutually agree to start dating."

"I can't believe you're laughing at me right now."

"I can't believe you're so thick you think you're the only person in the world who has ever had an unrequited crush."

"It's not technically unrequited!"

"Well then I guess you're not technically being rejected and you should cheer up," Hermione's voice was light and teasing. She curled her fingers around her mug and took another sip of tea, then cleared her throat. "Harry, I'm really not trying to be unsympathetic. But if you let yourself fall into self-pity, or worse, push Draco too far too soon, you might ruin your chances of even keeping him in your life."

"Do you think he's worth it?" Harry asked, quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just… what Neville said the other night. I know that you and Draco patched things up last year a bit and all that, and I know he's changed. I know how much I like him, now. But do you think that, underneath it all, he's really a different person than what he was, before?"

"I don't think he's a different person at all. I think he's the same Draco he's always been. Don't look so startled, I don't mean that I think he's worthless or something. I mean I think he never was the evil person we thought he was when we were children. He's learned a great deal, and it's changed how he acts and what he values, but underneath it all he's the person he was when he first met you."

Harry closed his eyes and tried to imagine the boy Draco when they first met—in Madame Malkin's shop in Diagon Alley, and then, not long after, holding out his hand for friendship. At the time, Harry had seen only disdain for Ron in Draco's eyes, but now he could see other things as well—fear, and uncertainty.

"Harry, I don't want you to think I'm dismissing Neville's concerns—for Neville, those things are really true and valid. But you aren't Neville, and you have to act on your own feelings, not on his."

"I think Neville is like Snape," Harry said. Hermione laughed shortly.

"Don't ever let Neville hear you saying that, he'd be apoplectic."

"No, I just mean… the way Neville feels about Draco is a lot like how Snape felt towards my dad. He could never get past his humiliation."

They lapsed into silence for a moment.

"You should really talk to Ginny, you know. She thinks she did something wrong."

Harry groaned.

"I know. I was an idiot. After I kissed Draco and he ran off I just lost it. I practically ordered Ginny and Eleanor out of the flat. No explanation."

"She seemed to think you might have been jealous of Eleanor. Said you kept giving them both weird looks all night every time they touched each other."

"I might have done. I'm not jealous of Eleanor. Or, I guess I am, but not because of Ginny. I'm happy for them. I'm just jealous of anyone who's got someone, you know?"

"You're lonely," Hermione said sympathetically, "but Harry—you need to make sure that all this intensity about Draco isn't just because you're lonely and he's been hanging around lately."

Harry sighed morosely.

"I'm sorry I don't have more answers."

"Me too," Harry said, ruefully. "You always have answers. Usually to questions I haven't even figured out I need to ask."

Hermione smiled, looking tired. "If it helps, I do think there's more going on in the letter than just what he's written on the surface."

"More? Like what?"

Hermione shrugged.

"Oh, I don't know. But it seems pretty clear that something or someone hurt him very badly in the past. Maybe it was Cedric Diggory, maybe it was another lover. Maybe it wasn't a lover at all. But I think there's a story there."

"Shouldn't we be in research mode?"

"There's not going to be a book to tell us what's happening with Draco. I think when the time comes he'll tell you himself. Trying to find out before then wouldn't be research, it would be prying."

Harry must have looked particularly dejected, because she shot her hand out and took his in a gesture of comfort.

"Harry, don't look like that. This is all going to be ok. Nothing terrible has happened. It's all going to be fine."

"Then why do I feel like this," Harry groaned, "like I'm locked in a room full of dementors without a wand and I'll never escape and-"

"And Draco is just the giant chocolate bar you need to start feeling better again?" Harry laughed, in spite of himself. "Harry, be careful. Draco isn't a solution to your problems, he's a person with his own feelings and desires to cope with. If he doesn't want to be with you, you have to take him at his word."

"You think I have problems?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No, it's perfectly normal to feel as though all happiness has been drained from the world and you'll never experience joy again."

"I didn't say it quite like that," Harry said, coloring slightly.

"I'd roll my eyes again, but I think doing so at this point might permanently damage them." Hermione's grip on Harry's arm became firm. "Harry, buck up. It's not the end of the world. You've faced worse, and you'll get through it. You've been chased by Death Eaters, forced to take part in harrowing Dark Magic rituals, and unknowingly used as a vessel for the soul of a sociopathic lunatic who murdered your parents. You died once, for heaven's sake. You need to get some perspective."

Harry looked down at his tea. It was starting to get cold, and he debated casting a warming charm. Hermione was right. He needed some perspective. He looked up at Hermione and she gave him an encouraging smile. _Everything's going to be fine_, he told himself. But there was a pit in his stomach, nevertheless. A nagging feeling that, no matter what Hermione said, he should do something. He was, after all, a Gryffindor.


End file.
